Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S3 Ep130: Episode 130: Vietnam War Horror Stories

Episode Date: July 6, 2023

Today’s opening tale of terror is ‘1971: The Vietnam Experience’, a brilliantly original work by Sanjoaquincounty58, shared with me via the Creepypasta Wiki and read to you all with the author��s express permission via the CC-BY-SA license: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:Sanjoaquincounty58 https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/1971_-_The_Vietnam_Experience This is followed by all six parts of ‘Tales from The Iron Triangle’, an epic work by Taxi Dancer, kindly shared directly with me via my subreddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission.  https://www.reddit.com/user/Taxi_Dancer/

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. The Vietnam War was a conflict primarily fought between North Vietnam, supported by the Soviet Union, China, and South Vietnam, supported by the United States and its allies, between 1955 and 1975. While the war was marked by intense military engagements and significant historical events,

there are no verified or widely recognized supernatural events are specifically associated with the Vietnam War. Now, it's important to note that supernatural events are typically matters of personal belief or folklore rather than historical facts. Some individuals might claim to have experienced supernatural occurrences or have stories passed down through generations, but such accounts are subjective and lack concrete evidence. In the context of the Vietnam War, soldiers may have had various personal experiences that they interpreted as supernatural or paranormal,

phenomena due to the extreme and stressful conditions of combat. These experiences could include hallucinations, vivid dreams, or unexplained occurrences, but they're generally not considered supernatural events in the strictest sense. It is crucial to approach such topics with critical thinking and understanding that supernatural events are often subjective and open to interpretation, but sometimes they're genuinely unexplainable, as we'll see in tonight's collection of stories.

Now, my dear friends, as always, before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's tales may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. And let's begin. The Vietnam War was arguably the most traumatic experience for the United States in the 20th century. That is indeed a grim distinction in a span that included two world wars, the assassinations of two presidents and the resignation of another. The Great Depression, the Cold War.

Court war, racial unrest and the drug and crime waves. 1971. The Vietnam Experience. Ooh, 1971 and 1972. The years go by. Nixon was president. The Godfather movie was released. Libertarians had the first convention, and I was drafted for military service.

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was 18 and just graduated high school in May. My mother and father were there to see me released into the world of hard work and dedication. However, that was not the case as I decided to fight for a cause and signed up for the army in June of 1972. After three months of boot camp, learning out a fight hand-to-hand combat and weapons training, I was shipped off from my boot camp in my home of Travis County, Texas, to San Diego to be deployed. While in San Diego, I was shipped on a plane to a mysterious land known as Vietnam, I'd only heard about the mysteries of Vietnam and the local news.

That was mostly stories about missing in action, prisoners of war in the North Vietnam camps which I'd heard about. These men who were found deep in the jungle slaughtered to death by the red evil known as the Viet Cong. However, I still continued with no regrets, thinking I was going to fight for the freedom of the Vietnamese people from an evil cause and liberate them for the better good of the world. Going from San Diego to Vietnam was a harsh plane, ride, especially with all the storms going across the Pacific Ocean.

However, to pass the time, I talked to some of the other fellows from the plane. First was a guy from Austin, Texas, known as Paul. Paul was an 18-year-old high school flunk who decided that his only pileth after school was to go into the army. Paul's choice of employment had made him a happy man with really no real problems. There was also a kid from California named Carson, who was from Stockton. Carson was of half-Vietnamese, half-Irish descent. and decided to fight for the South Vietnamese cause. He spoke fluent Vietnamese and English from his mother's side.

He'd always be cracking swear words in Vietnamese. He obviously was the quirkiest kid from the group, being this 20-something fellow who always crack jokes to make everyone feel better. I soon befriended these fellows and we were the best of buddies by the end of the flight. We arrived at the military base in Saigon and were allowed a few days to roam the city before the deployment into the jungle. While time was on my side, I ventured into the streets of Saigon. I stumbled on an old bookstore.

I took a peek inside and it revealed thousands of books, mostly written in Vietnamese. The one behind the counter looked at me and then went to the back. I decided to look at the folklore section which was full of stories told by locals and traditions passed. I then saw a book in English which looked a little worn and decided to take a peek. I opened up to one page and found the image of a frightening dragon with large red eyes. I wasn't scared, but decided to read the story anyways. It mostly talked about a dragon which roamed the jungle looking for prey unless someone offered a sacrifice. After reading it, I thought it was the cheesiest story I'd ever laid eyes on.

However, as I turned around, the shopkeeper looked at me and said politely in English, you'd better walk with your eyes open in those trees and then walked away well that's kind of confused but just walked out and proceeded to the base after a few days in sagon we were given our mission and being privates we'd be the first ones in to search for the viet congen would investigate the local jungles nearby the border most notably for missing prisoners within the thick jungle me and about 200 other men were shipped off in jeeps to the battle zone, specifically the border between north and south Vietnam. Arriving in our destination, well, it was a very quiet place. Nothing but the chirps of

small birds in the distance. It was a large ancient jungle which didn't seem to be of anything really. The man in charge told us to get ready and set up camp, which we probably did. His name was Sergeant Rogers. He was a ripped guy who had to be over 250 pounds. He walked like he had to be doing something at all times, but was not one of those yell at your face, fellas. Instead, he treated the men in his brigade as if he was another soldier, just giving orders. After a few hours of set up, Carson, Paul and I were sent off to investigate the thick jungle. Grabbing our guns, we quietly walk through the middle of the jungle, scouting for anything that we could see. The place was quiet, and we heard nothing but the chirping of bugs in the distance,

and the occasional bird. If it wasn't for the war that was going on here, this would be a beautiful vacationing spot. After a few hours of scouting and seeing nothing, we headed back to base camp, but not before Carson saw something crude in the distance. It ought to be like something man-made, like a big rock building of some sort. We then approached the huge building only to find that it was a large abandoned temple of sorts. We walked up to the temple. thinking something could be in there. But then we heard footsteps

and someone yelling something in Vietnamese a few hundred feet away. It was the Viet Cong. We then hurried back to camp and told our superiors the story of finding some temple in the middle of the jungle. Well, he just laughed and said that those old Buddhist temples

which had long been forgotten. Well, even though our superior didn't care, we were still deeply interested in these temples. Another day went by and we were picked again to scout out the jungle. Well, this time, we decided to venture deeper into the thickness of the vines and trees.

After a few miles of venturing in the jungle, we saw a camp of the Reds. It was an encampment of a few hundred men, which by this point were just a mere hundred yards from us. We just looked at them and at their entire encampment, not seeing any prisoners. We scoured the thickness of the jungle for a few hours, writing the daily log of what we'd seen,

and reported it back to Rogers, mainly just how many troops we'd seen, how far away it was, and so on. We stayed at the side of the camp for a few hours, when a red soldier approached, in the distance, not seeing us. He pulled something out of his pocket, and we were ready for the worst, but he was just a zippo lighter,

and he'd gone out for a smoke. Well, Carson was hyped up to capture this guy, and he had a plan. We'd go up to the soldier, gag him and try to get any information about the missing soldiers. We decided to put this plan into full effect and tried to get anything we could out of this soldier. We surrounded the guy on all sides,

slowly approaching him in a quiet fashion. He was about 20 feet away from us now and all we could smell was the cigarette burning rapidly. Slowly walking as close as I could, I could finally see the orange part of his burning cigarettes says he took it from his mouth. I then grabbed my pistol and rag and went behind him, grabbing him and gagging him.

He was letting out muffled screams for help, but I wasn't going to let him go. Carson and Paul held him down, but he was still screaming for us to let him go. Carson then told the man, with a knife to his neck, in Vietnamese that if he screamed once, he'd cut his neck wide open. The man went quiet at this,

sweating bullets out of fear for his life. Carson then started talking to the man in his native tongue, asking all the information that he knew. The man and Carson talked for about five minutes until Carson, in disgust, let the man down and then beat him with the butt of his gun, leaving the man unconscious so we could get away. We then started on the ferocious hike back to camp, tired and covered in mud from the jungle. I then popped the question about what the man had said. Carson, who was mad, blankly said The man said there is no prisoner or war camp near this area And that the man from their encampment have disappeared as well

Thinking it was an American POW camp I was dumbfounded at this Thinking that we'd not had any disappearances since coming to the jungle But that we'd also not captured any enemies since we got here either We continued the walk back And I was speechless as we walked to the encampment The three of us went to Roger's tent and explained to him that there were no prisoners at the camp and told him about the soldier. Rogers was almost as confused as us, but then gave us orders to head back to our quarters as if something was bothering him.

His face while we were just staring at him was red, mad, as if someone had just murdered his wife. He then proceeded to yell at us to get back to our quarters, and we scurried back to our beds. Paul asked, Why was Rogers so infuriated with us? We did our job and scattered the enemy. What else does he want? I don't know, Paul. I think Rogers is hiding something from us and the other troops.

Carson explained. That trooper at the Rescamp also said something about a serpent-like creature when the disappearances occurred. Why didn't you say anything about that to Rogers? I asked. He's never going to believe us. Plus, I think there's a lot more to learn about the jungle. Carson exclaimed.

Okay, we'll talk more in the morning. I sighed. No, no, we cannot let anyone else know about this. Paul yelled out. Carson hesitated and then said to us, let's just keep this to ourselves for now. If something does happen, then we'll be ready for it. The three of us then shook on it,

agreeing that we would not talk about it again and proceeded nervously to the bunks. A few days passed by, we were preparing to address. advanced towards the North Vietnamese camp that we'd spotted earlier. Rogers explained that this would be a routine mission, and we'd be going deep into the jungle to attack the enemy. Rogers had a nervous look on his face,

but he was ready to send the troops into battle. We grabbed our guns and supplies and set off walking through the jungle once again. Our first job was to clear a path by removing trees and other debris, mostly with construction equipment and flamethrowers. Carson and I were put on flamethrower duty and Paul was put on clearing the debris We spent another few hours clearing trees and rocks Before setting up camp deep within the forest

We began setting up sandbags and digging holes Preparing for the attack And that's when we saw the Vietnamese There was a counter-attack force Only a few hundred yards away We grabbed our guns And a firefight soon engulfed the two forces We battled deep into the night.

Bullets were grazing past me and Paul as we reloaded our guns. Paul had killed about a dozen of the enemy before Rogers yelled out for the big guns. I was lucky if I'd even shot one or two of the guys. This was my first battle with real people. The grappling guns began firing on the enemies. Many of the Vietnamese were underpowered in terms of weapons and were running at us. We began taking them down with all the firepower we had. We began to cheer but it wasn't long before more of those reds kept coming through the trees.

Their dead bodies were just piling on top of each other and had this evil look in their eyes. And then everything started to fall apart. Snipers in the trees began to pick us off one by one, killing the many good men around me. Paul was grazed in the leg and then Rogers yelled out for us to retreat. All of us began to fall back as more and more body. bodies from our side began to fall. By then Rogers was already off the battlefield and most of the survivors were running towards the south. I then heard Paul cry out. He'd been shot in the leg. I grabbed him and put him over my shoulder with Carson giving us cover fire. By this point we were almost surrounded and began to run eastwards. I then shouted to the others that the temple could be our place of refuge until the enemy had left.

So we slowly dragged Paul to the temple, which was a long two mile walk. We then saw the temple in the moonlight With its ancient vegetation growing all over the old stone walls I could hear shouting behind us as we ran into the temple But it was dark and quiet for most of the night I took a look outside to find a few of the Reds looking at me Seeing that I was in the temple But well

They looked terrified with blank expressions on their faces They ran off shouting something in Vietnamese. And they were yelling out, Conron, Conron! Conrong! Confused and more than just a little pissed off. I sprayed a bunch of bullets to ward them off,

and then ran back into our temporary fortress. I then said to Carson that those bastards were gone, and they were running for their lives back into the jungle, not telling him what they'd said. Carson was busy tending to Paul's wounds, which weren't too bad, but he still couldn't walk on his own, while I proceeded to make my way through the old temple to get a feel for what kind of surroundings we were in.

Mostly what I found were statues of some fellow I didn't know and paintings of dragons everywhere. The drawings depicted people running out of the temple into a jungle being chased by this dragon-like creature. The creature was yellow with red eyes and a red stripe, and it had sharp teeth and a sinister-looking face, like it was ready to devour someone. I then walked deeper into the temple, with my lighter guiding me, looking at all these paintings of this dragon, which would do anything from sitting on top of some temple to devouring people.

I was deeply impressed by these drawings, and I heard a large bump at the end of the corridor. It was Carson. He then looked at the drawings and was shocked by their contents. He said they were from some local dragon legend. According to Carson, the Vietnamese, like many East Asian cultures, were extremely intertwined with the dragon in their stories. He didn't know this particular story, but he said that dragons in Vietnamese culture were often

said to be bringers of rain, particularly in agriculture. He also said that I really believe the dragon to be a father figure to men, and it was even included in their creation stories. They signified that they brought much good to the world, but this dragon was very different from the ones in Vietnamese folklore. He said that this dragon was evil and was a vicious killer, not like the loving creatures typically depicted. Just as he was about to explain more,

we heard screams coming from Paul in the distance. We ran back to him, and he explained that something was growling at him in the distance. We looked outside to see the silhouette of something in the distance, just staring at us with these big red eyes. It looked like some large bird with the body of a worm. It was growling and had a huge snout like a lion. It was hunched over the body of a man who was screaming for his very life as this monster started eating him from his torso.

The creature ripped flesh and tissue from the man swallowing his intestines like spaghetti. It then turned around and growled at us from outside the temple and began waving its wings. It then flew off. We then saw its face as it tried to break into the temple, looking for something to eat or kill. We ran deeper into the temple, into a large atrium, and stayed there for a few hours, hearing the creature's snarls and its screeches.

It was screaming and banging on the walls of the temple, trying to get to us, so we just remained in the atrium. More hours passed, and it went silent for a while. We could hear the occasional bird. I picked up my lighter and made a makeshift fire with pieces of cloth and leaves. I then noticed the same silhouette of something in the background. I hop back, thinking it was some beast, but it was a statue of the same dragon, covered in gold and ruby.

Carson explained, whoever was here didn't just fear this creature they also worshipped it and then walked towards the back of the atrium and noticed a room going to the back of the temple it went to a long line of stairs which proceeded to a room with an opening big enough to fit the dragon inside the room there were drawings of dragons everywhere a large altar big enough for a human to be sacrificed it was covered in dirt and leaves but it was definitely for sacrifices as i found I found plenty of daggers nearby, made of gold. It was then I heard a hiss above me and saw the dragon coming down with its claws ready. It lunged from me and scratched me deep on the leg. I heard its musky breath from the other side of the cavern.

It let out of roar, and I could smell the stench of rotten flesh within its mouth. Then tried to grab me from the corner of the room. I ran to the open door, back to the atrium, but not before it was able to grab my leg. With its claws digging deep within my skin, I let out a shriek and then grab my revolver from its holster and shot it in the arm. It shrieked and yelled at this, and I saw this as an opportunity to get out of there. I crawled back to the open door and escaped the beast by climbing back to the atrium where my colleagues were waiting. We waited for daylight to come, which seemed like an eternity. Ball's bleeding was stopped and then we picked him up and proceeded to walk out of the temple to civilization.

My eyes then adjusted to the incoming daylight as we swiftly walked out of the temple towards the American camp. We walked for what seemed like ours, only to find a crew of mangled corpses of Vietnamese troops in a large tanker truck. They looked like they'd been ripped of shreds but by nothing man-made. one of the men was ripped in half at the torso and missing his lower half another man was missing his body and only his head was left something had taken down an entire battalion of Vietnamese we knew what had done this but we weren't going to stay around for confirmation we began to check the bodies and look for any necessary supplies

finding water and some painkillers I suddenly heard in the distance a faint cry for help We walked in awe towards the dying man. He was yelling out that word in Vietnamese again. Conrong. Carson then talked with a man who was saying words about a serpent with wings and how it ambushed them.

He talked with us for a few more minutes about this creature which would just not die. This creature severed a huge gash in his leg in an incoming attack. attack which happened just a few hours ago. He was able to survive for a while longer, but kept blanking in and out of consciousness. He then began going into shock, but kept shouting the same word until he died. By that point I was sick to my stomach and throwing up whatever content was in my body,

trying to understand what the hell was going on. All I wanted to do was go home and never see this shit again. I was as sick as I could be. I grabbed a swig of water from my canteen, which was halfway full. We then searched through the entire tank, before leaving the mangled bodies and courses behind on our way back to camp. We walked for what seemed like hours, stopping only to give ourselves a short break and carrying poor.

Who was okay for the time being? His leg, however, started to show signs of infection. Then we finally saw the familiar sight of an American judge, Jeep in the distance, hoping that someone out here was still alive. Well, we finally made it back to the American camp, which seemed to be all but abandoned. The jeeps and even the tents were all but abandoned within the area, and most everything was charred like it had been in a fire. And then we found the corpses, just like at the Vietnamese camp. Chard remains of men were all over the place, half-eaten men with their inner scattered.

It was a disaster zone. We then began walking through the entire encampment trying to find some life when we saw a handful of Americans, including Rogers. Rogers was loading up gasoline into a large Jeep with a few injured and a few healthy people, all getting ready to leave.

We started yelling at Rogers that we were okay as he yelled back and waved us to come along. We dragged Paul to the Jeep and put him. him in gently. Many of the men in the jeep looked injured, including Rogers, who appeared to be scared out of his mind. He then told us that everyone in the battalion was dead apart from us, and we were lucky to be alive. He later said that no one else was alive, including the Vietnamese. He then paused and said, after the retreat, we ran towards the base camp area, where we settled him before, stopped there for prep work in the morning. And something came from the

distance and began to attack us. God, that thing was everywhere, slaying troops one by one with his big red eyes and his bloody teeth. It was flying around our jeeps and stopping anyone from leaving, charing men, cooking them to death, rip another men apart piece by piece. We ran into the nearby forest and hid in a small cave until the thing left. That's when I began finding survivors, and then I found this jeep. talking then about our encounters with this creature and how it had killed many men along the way. By the time we'd finished explaining all of our stories,

we'd reached a small town outside of Saigon and went to the nearest American military post. And that's, well, that's where my story ends. After that horrible encounter, all 12 of us were relieved of our military duty due to PTSD, and were never given an explanation about that serpent. We were flown back to the United States and then sent to a mental health division of the VA.

There the doctors said that the dragon was just a result of the stress we'd endured, but, well, I know what I saw. After the scramble, we all went our separate ways. As for the others, well, those few that survived, I only know what happened to Paul, Rogers and Carson. Paul, after returning home, had his leg amputely. He lived a nice life until he began having flashbacks of that dragon and the temple,

and he was later admitted into a mental health clinic in 1984, where he died a year later. Rogers, after returning home, worked at a local grocery store where he later became the manager. However, due to constant headaches and hearing voices, he committed suicide in 1995, leaving a suicide note about how he was hearing noises from outside his window and seeing red eyes. is all around him. As for Carson, he still contacts me and, and after returning home, got his degree in Eastern Religious Studies from the University of Michigan. He's still researching about the dragon in the tomb, and is implied he might go back to Vietnam

to try and solve the mystery of the murders. As for all the other men slaughtered by the dragon? Well, I don't know. It was never explained to me what happened to the many people who perished that. In the end, I still know what I saw, and I know the other two men saw what I saw too. Well, that thing still stalks me in my dreams. The doctors from the VA still say that it's stress, the stress of being in the war. But I know what I saw, and it was not a hallucination.

I know that thing is still out there waiting to kill me, waiting to skim me alive, waiting to rip me apart with its razor sharp. teeth and its blood-red eyes. And it'll still be waiting for me in my dreams. Still waiting. Tales from the Iron Triangle. Warpain. Operation Junction City.

February, 1967. Republic of South Vietnam. Sergeant First Class Martin Brewbaker hadn't slept a wink since brutal Viet Cong ambush which devastated his platoon the day before. How could he? His soldiers were skytroopers, part of the Army's elite one seventy-third Airborne Brigade. But yesterday, Mr. Victor treated his paratroopers like they were V.C.'s bitches. His young paratroopers were shaken.

They'd been in Vietnam for two months and, as yet, had not suffered a single casualty. Then, in less than an hour, his platoon of paratroopers got chewed up and spat out like a wad of bubble gun by an enemy that proved to be highly motivated. and highly dedicated and could survive for days on rice and fish salts. Sergeant First Class Brewbaker knew that he probably looked like a crumpled up shitbag as he was summoned to the first sergeant's tent that morning. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat. He spent the entire night trying to console his young sky soldiers while wrestling with the fact that for the first time in his six-year army career,

he didn't have all the answers. First Sergeant Gordon, Gordie Malone. was a six-foot-three-inch sky-soldier, a by-the-book senior NCO who took no shit from anyone, regardless of their rank or race. By sheer force of testosterone-fueled intimidation, Malone commanded the respect of everyone in his company, whether they were a white Confederate flag-waving redneck

or an Afro-wearing black liberation activists. Malone was black himself, and in his Bravo company, you conducted yourself as a goddamn sky-soldier and the most elite, professional, deadly mother-humper in the goddamn valley of death. If not, Malone would personally make your life a living tragedy. There was no one in between with Malone.

The 173 had a motto. Kill professionally. And that's what the sky soldiers excelled it. Bravo Company didn't suffer from any of the racial strife and indiscipline that plagued some of the freaking leg units. Lowly, non-parachute qualified ground-pounders who were. offended the gods of war by simply breathing. The 173rd Airborne wasn't like the infamous 23rd infantry American Division,

the American division that seemed to be made up of white trailer trash and black ghetto thugs that had been hopelessly thrown together and told by their political masters. Here, you fight this war. First Sergeant Malone kept his company at the pinnacle of military discipline and teamwork. His soldiers more afraid to incur the big First Sergeant's wrath than they were to catering to their personal racial biases and bigotry. But yesterday was different. The freaking commies hit the entire battalion hard,

and Malone's first platoon of Bravo Company took it right on the chin. First Sergeant Malone didn't say anything as Sergeant First Class Brewpaker, Bravo Company's first platoon sergeant, didn't bother to come to parade rest, as he entered the tent and simply plopped himself down on the aluminum seat in front of the first sergeant's desk. "'Gees, Martin, you look like shit,' said Malone, offering Brubaker a pall mall. Brubaker accepted the cigarette gratefully and lit it with his zipper.

"'I'll look better than I feel, Tom,' said Brubaker. "'Any word?' Malone studied his first platoon sergeant. Brubaker was easily his most experienced and trusted platoon sergeant as one of, and was one of the very few soldiers in the company who was as tall as he was, both tactically and technically proficient in all of his combat skills and totally fearless in combat. Brubaker was one of those iconic Sergeant Rock types that soldiers naturally followed into battle. In fact, in less than a year, Brubaker was going to pin on his E8 rank and become the first sergeant himself.

But today, well, today Bruebecker was a wreck, and Malone didn't have the time to mince words. Wilson, Peterson, Fenton, and Hulua are at the tarns. Don Nute, Teres, started him alone. They'll be on the freedom bird back home by this evening at the latest. Well, with any luck, they'll be back in the States by the end of the week, where their families can claim their bodies. Bruebaker nodded as he looked down at his muddy jungle roots, remembering when the ambush had started.

Private First Class Peterson and Private First Class Fenton were all FNGs, Fing new guys, still fresh from the jump school and weren't even in country long enough to catch VD from a bar girl in Saigon. The novice soldiers were still brand new and gung-ho, smelling like cheap old spice and betting on who would get the first kill as they were walking across a rice paddy when the enemy set off a well-hidden,

command detonated mine in a rice-pattie dike which blew them all to pieces. Their squad leader, Sergeant Hulua, the brawny, foul-mouthed, hard-charging Pacific Islander from Hawaii, had warned them about getting complacent. He ran forwards across the rice paddies, to get his fallen man, yelling for the medic.

Suddenly, a machine gun hidden in a bunker, camouflaged to look like an embankment, opened up on him at close range. Big Sergeant Hulua was literally cut in half while the medic, specialist McPherson, took around in the small of his back before he could even take three steps. Less than five seconds,

it was effing communist son of a bitchies for the United States of America zero. The rest of the platoon divided to one side of the raised, on which they were walking and ducked into the brown waters of the rice paddy. That's when the entire world erupted with automatic weapons fire in a textbook enemy ambush that caught the American platoon out in the middle of that damned rice paddy. Lieutenant Don Levy and specialist Gonzalez are also at Tarnson, awaiting evacuation to Japan,

continued First Sergeant Malone. Lieutenant Donlevy had his right arm amputated and Gonzalez has lost sight in both of his eyes. As first Sergeant Malone spoke, Brubaker was having flashbacks of the day before. Everything happened so quickly, and it seemed as if they were moving slowly, as if in a dream. When the ambush occurred, Lieutenant Don Levy and his radio man, specialist Gonzales, had jumped down off the paddy and took cover behind the embankment in the fetid-smelling knee-high brown water. The fire coming from the enemy positions was so intense that almost none of the American paratroopers could return fire. Lieutenant Dunlevy got on the radio to TOC, Tactical Operations Centre,

to request air or artillery support when two well-placed enemy RPGs, rocket-propelled grenades, impacted right where the platoon leader and his radio man had taken cover. Both of their bodies were blown into the air, and they landed in a smoking, bloody heap. As a platoon sergeant, it was Bruebaker's job to mentor and advise the young new incoming lieutenant so that he could effectively lead his platoon during combat. Don Levy was just a kid in his early twenties, barely even older than his radio man, but he was turning out to be a fine leader.

That one really hurt Brubaker, although they were nothing really he could have done to prevent it. Lieutenant Donlevy did everything right, said Brubaker. He took cover with his radio man and quickly called for supporting fires. But, well, what did that get him? Don Levy is laid up in some field hospital with a stump where his arm should have been. He's probably going to get a bedside purple-heart award from some desk riding off his jockey general, who couldn't give less than two shits about young lieutenant Donlevy.

The specialist Gonzalez is the platoon's artist. He wanted to use his GI Bill to become a painter once he completed his tour of duty. How the hell is he going to do that now? Brew Baker's voice creaked as he gritted his teeth. You saved your medic's life, Martin. said first, Sergeant Malone. You got Macpherson aboard the dust off before he bled out. He said he couldn't feel his legs top, said Brubaker.

I saved him only so he can live out his life as a paraplegia. He's alive, Sergeant, said Malone. You got him out. You got your lieutenant and your radio man out, and you got the rest your platoon back into the tree line while the freaking red legs put high explosive steel on the rice paddy. And second platoon went in to secure the area after we hit the enemy positions with artillery. And a pair of Air Force F-100 Super Savers hit Mr. Victor with Nape.

Oh, and second platoon went in to secure the area after we hit the enemy positions with artillery. And a pair of Air Force F-100 super-savers hit Mr. Victor with Nape. Second platoon found nothing. The second platoon sergeant said that Mr. Victor escaped down those damn tunnels that the freaking VC dug underneath all over the eyeing triangle. said Brubaker, almost shouting. Junction City was supposed to be a multi-divisional operation with us, the first infantry division and the 25th Infantry Division.

The best of America's best divisions were supposed to strike into the heart of the freaking iron triangle with all of our might and shit down the throats of Ho Chi Min's boys. Instead, all we did was poke a stick at a hornet's nest, and they all swarmed out on us. Brubaker exhaled, realizing that he'd almost raised. raise his voice to his first sergeant. Malone was staring coldly at him, and Brubaker knew he was close to crossing a thin line. While the first sergeant was being somewhat lenient with him, Brubaker knew Malone would not tolerate any insubordination for one of his platoon sergeants, whether Brubaker had justified an ambush or not.

Brubaker exhaled again. I'm sorry, Taub, said Brubaker. I didn't mean to sound like I was thrown in the towel. I almost lost my arm. entire company at Pusan, Sergeant Brubaker, said Malone, sternly. That's over 70 men killed in less than an hour. In Korea, we were to pray for a day like you had yesterday. We never threw in the towel. When the Chinese came pouring over the ridge, we fixed bayonets. Brubaker nodded, suddenly feeling ashamed.

Malone was only 17 when he'd volunteered to join the army and fought against the communists in Korea back in 1952. Malone was part of the Army First Cavalry Division back then and had somehow survived the retreat from Pusanne. Brubaker's platoon suffered four men killed in action and three men wounded in action yesterday in a stinking Vietnamese rice paddy. In Korea, the Americans had lost several platoons every day.

Rubek had changed the subject. Any word on private first class, Neely? He asked, putting out his cigarette. not yet said the first sergeant private first class neelie was one of the other FNGs and was a fourth member of sergeant halloo's rifle squad he'd somehow gotten separated from the rest of the platoon when his squad was annihilated and was not present when the order was given to pull back

second platoon later found his jammed m16 rifle in the water caked in mud after the air force plastered the rice paddy with napal but there was no sign of neelie there was a marine recon can't team in the area. Continued First Sergeant Malone. The search for him last night, but the area was crawling with NVA and VC. The Marines got caught in a firefight and suffered KIAs. They had to extract under fire. It has nearly been listed as MIA, asked Brewbaker.

For now, answered Malone, but we will find him. First Sergeant Malone leaned forward and offered Brewbaker another cigarette, which Brewbaker politely refused. "'Marden,' said the first sergeant. "'You're the best platoon sergeant I have in the company. "'There are 27 soldiers in your platoon "'that just got their asses handed to them, "'and they're all shaken up right now.

"'I need to know if you can lead them.' "'Really tough?' said Brubaker. "'Determination now coming back to his voice. "'That was never an issue for me. "'Friken Victor Charles owes us a shit ton of payback, "'and first platoon is going to collect.' good set him alone because last night air force f4 phooms and f100 super sabers hit three entire grid squares with snake and name later today we're going to arc light the hell out of the place with b 52s tomorrow battalions pushing back into the iron triangle from the west while the first infantry will be pushing from the east i need your platoon ready to go back into the breach again the hits just keep on coming said brubay grabbing up his M-16.

I'll have to rearrange our roster to make up for our losses, but we'll be ready to move, top. Okay, said Malone, but some time today when you get a chance, I'm ordering you to stand down. Get some chow and get some rest. I can't have you looking like a rag bag

in front of your platoon when we board the hughies in the morning. Well do, said Brubaker, as he stood out from his seat. Oh, and get a damn shrewdbaker. shower man said first sergeant you smell like goat ass roger top as brue baker turned to leave the tent he nearly ran into a soldier that suddenly threw open the dense door flap oh sorry sir said brou baker to the other soldier as he barged into the tent captain stabledon was a tall lanky soldier who wore wide-rimmed glasses who commanded the company first sergeant you need to come with me said captain stableton he turned to Sergeant Brubaker. I'm glad you're here, Bruh. smiled the officer. You need to come with me also.

Donning their helmets and grabbing their rifles, Malone and Brubaker followed Captain Stapleton as he led them across the battalion's forward operating base. Stapleton was taking long strides across the dusty red clay ground that had been packed down like brick that had been baking in the oven. The morning air beat with the characteristic rhythmic thun-tun-tun-tun-tum of Huey-thewy. helicopters, ferrying sky soldiers from the base out into Indian country, while other hughies brought in supplies, ammunition, and more replacements for the meat grinder that was the iron train. Although it was only barely after 8 in the morning, the heat and humidity rising from the

surrounding junker was already promising a sweaty and depressive day in South Vietnam. The trio passed the mess tent where the overworked cooks had been working since 4 in the morning Minters have a breakfast meal of soggy French toast, powdered eggs and fatty sausage links to the paratroopers before they went on with the business of fighting a wall. Soon they passed the 81mm mortar pits and the battery of four-told one of five-millimeter howitzers before approaching several sandbag bunkers built behind a perimeter fence of barbed wire. Beyond the barbed wire perimeter was 100 metres of relatively open flat space before the world was swallowed by a wall of thick jungle greenery.

At the entrance gates, a squatter's sentries were questioning a dishevelled-looking young American soldier who seemingly had crawled out of the bush. Sergeant Brubaker smiled and picked up his pace. It was young PFC Neely, first platoon's missing new guy. PFC Neely was given a couple of hours to clean up, change out of his fetid smelling uniform and into a clean one and grab some chow before reporting to Captain Stableton's company command tent. Bravo Company's medics gave PFC Neely the quick-want sovereigns, aside from being tired, dehydrated, and suffering from several cuts and bruises from his overnight ordeal in Indian country, Neely was relatively unharmed. Captain Stableton was seated in a metal folding chair flanked by First Sergeant Malone and Sergeant First Class Brewerbaker.

The battalion S2 intelligence officer, another captain named Miesway, was also there. The skinny intelligence officer with the wire-rimmed glasses and stringing. your mustache, hovered over a fidgety and nervous PFC Neely. Okay, Private Neely, said Captain Miesway in a surprisingly deep voice. I need to know the size of the enemy you accounted. I need to know their activity and their exact 10-digit grid location. I need to know what uniform they were wearing. What exact time did you encounter them?

What equipment were they carrying? Neely looked up at Captain Miesway with wide eyes, unsure about how to begin answering the Intel officer's rapid-fire questions. Son, continued me's way, sounding frustrated and not relenting or even giving young PFC nearly time to speak. Zan, your buddies are out there fighting and dying right now while you're sitting here gawking at me. We need to find those kami bastards and liberate the living hell out of them. This is your chance to score the big win. Come on, soldier.

Give me that ten-digit grid coordinates. Captain Miesway, interjected Captain Stableton. My sky soldier just survived a night alone out in Indian country. You were not going to get any data you need by interrogating him like he was one of the V.C. I wasn't exactly alone, answered PFC Neely. I know you weren't alone, answered Captain Miesway impatiently. You were surrounded by the Viet Cong. No, sir, said PFC Neely.

there was another American out there. What? yelled Miesway. Captain Stableton, are you missing another soldier? Hang on, Miesway. Captain Stapleton held up a hand to silence the intelligence officer who was quickly getting on his nerves. Stapleton stared into PFC Neely's eyes,

the young private's facial expression betraying a look that he was somehow in trouble. Neely, he began slowly but, Sterny. Did you say there was another American there? Was he a P.O.W? No, sir, stuttered Neely. Well, almost, well, we both almost were. But he had a couple of AK-47s, and he fought like a tiger, and he said he was zero days and wake up short, so he was headed to Danang. Wait a minute, private, said big, first Sergeant Malone. Slow down. Good Lord, Neely. You're talking like a runaway M-60 machine gun.

Take a deep breath, Neely, said Brubaker. We want to hear what you're saying, but you need to calm down. Bruebaker put two big hands on Neely's shoulders and looked at the young soldier reassuringly in the eyes. I'm glad you made it out of there, son. Now, can you tell me how you got here after the ambush? Start from the beginning and take your time. Neely gulped, then nodded. You looked down at his muddy jungle boots and then stared up again, looking with a blank,

expression of Brubaker. I don't know how long I was knocked out after the explosion. All I remember was waking up and looking over the rice paddy and seeing my squad all blown to pieces and Sergeant Hulua getting shot by the VC. I looked around to find my M-16, but I think I lost it after the explosion knocked me out, so that's why I don't have any weapons, sir. That's okay, Neely, said Captain Stapleton. We'll get you a new one, just continue telling us what happened. Yes, sir, nodded private need. So I just lay there in that muddy rice paddy, filled with water buffalo shit and tried to dig deeper as the VC were firing over my head towards my platoon. I don't think they knew I was there, but they were so close, I could hear them

yelling and commie. Well, I couldn't hear much of anything else because of all the firing and my ears ringing. I could just barely make out Lieutenant Dunleavy, shouting for us all to pull back to the tree line. I rolled over and tried to stand up to link up with the rest of the platoon and fall back, but I guess the explosion knocked me loopier than I realized, because I got dizzy and fell back into the shitwater. I don't know how long I crawled, but I could hear the VC firing shifting away from me. I guess they were firing at my platoon.

Anyway, I kept crawling until I got to the end of the rice paddy, drag myself out of the shitwater, and loo crawled towards the jungle, hoping none of the VC would notice me and light me up. I got into the tree line unnoticed by anyone, rolled into a shallow ravine. I was covered in vines and mud and other jungle shit when I hit the bottom of the ravine. I heard a few RPGs exploding somewhere off to my right and people yelling from McPherson, the medic. I remember drifting in and out of consciousness. I could hear more of the VC just a few feet away from me on top of the ravine.

I thought they'd spot me for sure, but I'd rolled under a thick thorn bush. I could hear the choppers coming and Sergeant Brubaker yelling something somewhere in the distance on the other side of the ravine. I remember thinking, not to forget about me, but it would have been suicide for me to have yelled anything. I heard radio static, people yelling in both commie and English. Lots of machine gunfighting, and I guess I passed out again after that. Nearly looked to Captain Stapleton.

What happened to my squad, sir? What happened to Wilson and Peterson and Fenton? we all went to basic training together at Fort Camp or Kentucky. We all came to Vietnam together. Neely fought back the tears as first Sergeant Malone told him how his squad had died. Unknowingly, Neely's story provided the key which solved a small puzzle. Why wouldn't experience soldier like Sergeant Hulua charge over open ground in the middle of an ambush? The answer was, he saw Private Neely get knocked down, and Hulua knew that Neely wasn't dead.

more than likely the reason why Sergeant Hulu had left cover was to pull PFC Neely back to the platoon's positions when a hidden enemy machine gun cut him down Brue Baker handed him a canteen of cool water which Neely drank greedily coughing as he gulped down the last drops Easy private said Brubaker Do you need a second to compose yourself Neely shook his head

No sergeant I'm fine I can continue and he had cleared his throat before picking up where he left off. It was darked by the time I regained consciousness. What I thought were thorns biting into me turned out to be fire ants, and the buzzing I heard were mosquitoes making a banquet of my hands and face. I could hear movement all around me and the clacking of rifle slings, hitting rifle barrels and water sloshing around in water canteens. They were close by, like just on the opposite sides of the bushes that surrounded me,

and they were whispering in Vietnamese. How many were there? yelled Captain Miesway. What did they look like? Did you make an attempt to capture one? Can you remember what they were saying? What direction were you heading? You weren't helping anything, sir, said First Sergeant Malone.

Miesway, said Captain Stapleton sternly. Stop interrogating my soldier. You get your answers after he's done telling us what happened. Staring daggers at the Intel officer. Captain Stableton said to PFC Neely, "'I'm sorry, son. Please continue.' Again, Neely cleared his throat. "'Yes, sir, well, I waited until I couldn't hear any movement around me,

and I slowly crawled out from underneath the thorn bushes. I was still somewhat dizzy, but I walked in the direction in which I heard the VC running, because I figured that's where you guys would be if you were still there. I walked for a few minutes, the moon only barely illuminating the jungle. I was blind as a bat holding my hands out in front of me so I didn't bump into a tree or VC or something. My head was pounding and I was still dizzy. That's when my stomach decided it hated everything inside of it. I stumbled onto my knees in the dark and crawled forwards,

throwing up next to what I'd hoped was a strand of trees. I was wretching louder than I'd hoped and it echoed all across the jungle, but I didn't hear anyone approaching. I was actually feeling much better after I pews. and I didn't feel dizzy anymore when I stood up. But when I stepped backwards, my boot hit a tripwire. Bright red flare shot straight up into the night air with a whoosh. It was probably one that we'd said.

Now it announced to the entire universe that my dumb ass was there. Well, all of a sudden, I could hear lots of footsteps racing back in my direction and Vietnamese shouting all around me. I'll also hear the clack of bullets being chambered into AK-47s. With that much VC shouting, I knew that they owned the countryside. I was the only American left alive in that sector. I turned and ran off into the jungle, just trying to get out of the glare from the trip flare which was suspended under a parachute above me

and spotlighting me in a pink light. I was hoping that the VC would think I was a deer or something that set off the trip flare, but Mr. Victor was really close behind me and I was making too much noise as I ran. so I just kept running blindly through the jungle. I managed to get out from under the trip flares light, but my night vision was ruined. I kept running into the jungle until I blindly slammed my noggin straight into a tree. I was starting for a second, but I could hear the enemy now closing in behind me and another group closing from my left.

Before I could clear my heads, something big reached from the jungle to my right and grabbed me, pulling me into the bushes. From behind me, I felt one big arm. wrapped around my neck and another big hand covered my mouth as I was pulled down behind the tree which my dumb ass had just run into. Once again I was engulfed in the shadows of a leafy bush while just a few feet away from me on the other side of the tree I could hear at least a dozen enemy soldiers running past where I and whoever grabbed me lay in the shadow. We hunkered down, holding our breaths until the sound of the enemy's searching feet faded into the distance.

Very slowly. Whoever grabbed me released. me with one arm, still keeping his other hand over my mouth. He turned my face to face his and made a shushing motion with his free hands. My eyes must have been as wide as saucers because in the dim moonlight I could make out his features. The guy had a doerag wrapped around his head instead of a helmet, and his face was camouflaged in black and green stripes. He was huge, I mean, probably even bigger than you, first sergeant, and he wore this strange uniform. It wasn't olive drab like house, but has some kind of green and brown tiger strap camouflage pattern. He looked to me and whispered,

You've private first-class, Neely. Please tell me your name's PFC Neely. Why nodded? This big hand still covering my mouth and nose. Then the big guy smiled, and for the first time, I saw his eyes were blue. He was American. Geez, kids, whispered the big guy. The friendly smile never leaving his face.

We've been searching all over the place for you. Where's your rifle, Neely? I lost it in the rice paddy, I answered. Probably sounding pretty stupid. It's probably covered in shit water and mud and wouldn't fire anyway. Yeah, yeah, probably right, kids. Smile the big guy. Them new M16s just look for an excuse to jam.

I've always been an M14 guy myself. Well, the big guy rolled over, grabbing something which he placed on the ground behind it. Here you go, kid. hand him in one of the two AK-47s he had. These things never jam. Oh, I've seen these things fire just fine, canting mud and dirt. Granted, they were firing at me, but I was still impressed. My eyes widened again.

Where'd you get these two VC AK-47s? I asked as I took one of the communist weapons from him. A big guy winked. His toothy grin never faded. Well, let's just say the two VC that I took these from, don't need them anymore. Come on, we have to move if we're going to get to your fire base. Wait, I said.

You were looking for me. Where's the rest of your team? We got in a firefight with Mr. Victor earlier, said the big guy. We took a casualty, so the rest of my team extracted out of the field. I decided to stay behind to search for you. Now, the big guy was just a silent shadow in front of me. It was so silent and stealthy when he got up and faded into the jungle. I would have never known he was there unless I was looking directly at him.

Whatever training they gave those guys, it was awesome. I'm really sorry about your friend, I said to the big guy, as he led me through the jungle like he knew where he was going in that black maze. Hey? he said. Ah, it was his time. Marines die. That's what we do. It's okay, though, as long as we take more of those assholes with us. Right, wait. Then he stopped suddenly.

I froze two steps behind him. He turned quickly and jumped at me, knocking me down and back into the dirt, just as an automatic weapon fired at us out of the darkness from the right. Good Lord, he hit me like a blindbacker when he knocked me down. Before I realized that the VC had set an ambush for us, the big guy was already on his feet and it tossed a frag grenade in the direction of the VC position. It exploded right where the VC had set up their machine gun, and we took off running again.

So he was just like First Sergeant Malone, but, you know, as a Marine. "'A ain't no Marine like me, Private,' said Malone. "'Don't you never use my name and the word Marines in the same sentence?' "'I, yeah, sorry, First Sergeant.' "'Stamoured Private Neely. "'I didn't mean to make you angry, First Sergeant.' "'Just get on with your report, Private Neely,' said Malone. "'Yeah, Neely,' added Brubaker.

"'What was the name of the other guy who was with you? "'Did he say what unit he was with?' "'Oh, I was... just get into that serge, said Neely. So we fell back away from the ambush for about a half a click before we stopped and took cover again. We were under a bunch of foliage and listening for any signs of pursuit. I heard a lot of VC yelling, and they were probably calling for their medics after the big guy fragged them. But after a while, the jungle went silent again.

I felt like the VC were all around us, though. When we were laying there under the bushes, I whispered to the big guy. You know who I am, so who are you? What's your name? The big guy just looked at me and said, Ah, the boys just call me war pains. Hang on, hang on, interjected Captain Meisway, writing furiously in a notepass.

Warpaint, is that one word or two? I'm sure it's two words, Captain Meisway. Growing Captain Stabledon. Private Neely, would you please continue? Yes, sir. Anyway, I looked at the big guy and said, Warpaint. You're the Warpaint. I can't believe it. You're like a legend in the Iron Triangle. Well, Warpaint just snickered and whispered. You sure you're not exaggerating. I'm not a legend. I'm just a lowly infantry grunt, just like you, kids.

Just trying to get my ass home in one piece. But you're a Marine recon scout sniper, I said. Stars and Stripes even did a story about you. They said you have at least 63 kills, 20 of them from this operation alone. Lies, said Warpaint. I've got at least 90 to 100 kills. Well, I mean, you know, Wapain grunted. That's if I was actually counting and keeping score, which I'm not, I'm just, you know,

setting the record straight is all. It's not like I'm in some competition with Gunny Hathcock to see you get some most kills or anything. Well, I heard you got busted down from staff, Sergeant, to Corporal, I said. How did that happen? A war pain just left. Me, a bottle of tequila, a passing to Saigon, a couple of cutest symbargo, synonys, and some asshole first cavalry gunship pilot. Didn't mix well. Apparently I put the asshole gunship pilot and a couple of equally assholeish MPs in the hospital for a couple of days.

Gunny Hathcock had no choice but to bust me down a few ranks. You know, Gunnery Sergeant Carlos Hathcock? I said. He's my platoon leader, said Warpaint. You want to know a secret kid. It was Gunny Hathcock who started the fight in the first place. Well, that made me laugh. I was actually calming down and relaxing for the first time since the ambush.

Warpane's easygoing confidence made me start to believe that I might actually survive until the morning. I heard the VC has a bounty on your head, Warpins, I said. Last I heard Uncle Ho Chi Men is paying $10,000 for your dog tags covered with your blood. Warpane snick and smiled. Yeah, well, kid, that'll never happen. We lay quietly on the ground for several minutes, listening for the sounds of movement and enjoying the swarms of mosquitoes and other biting insects. I must just smell like goat ass and patty shit,

but Warpane didn't smell like anything at all. He was that cool. After a while, he silently got up and said, Okay, coast clear. We need to head northeast towards a stream, which marks the boundary between the Army and Marine Corps operations in the triangle. Your fire base should be about a mile east of there. I don't know how he knew which way to go through the jungle and almost pitch dark,

but he walked through those woods as if he were walking through his own house, with all the lights turned up. More than once, we had to stop and take cover as a VC patrol came stalking out of the bush. But eventually, as the sun began to peek up over the mountains, we could see the stream about a half mile away flowing through the shallow valley. The VC probably also knew we'd be heading towards a stream as well

because a squad of them were waiting to ambush us there. Warpane and I returned fire with our AK-47s until we ran out of ammo. Then Warpain grabbed me and pushed me ahead of him and told me to run to the stream. We tore through the forest with the VC hard on our tails. Luckily for us, the jungle got a lot denser the deeper we ran down into the valley

and we lost our pursuers, although we could hear them running and yelling in the distance. We hunked down again under an embankment when we heard a couple of F-100 Super Sabre fighters dropping bombs just over the next ridge. The VC took off running when they heard our bombers coming, and they didn't hear any signs of pursuit. We got up and hauled ass as fast as we could for the stream.

Made a way to abandon the stream, which would conceal us from most of the VC behind us when we crossed. I stopped for a second to fill my canteen and get a drink of water while Warpaint kept a look-out. The coast was clear on our side of the bend in the stream, but as luck would have it, as we waded into the water and crossed to the other side. A VC soldier taking a piss, and the stream caught side of us from the other side of the bends. He yelled something in Kong and fired us with his AK. Well, I was out in the open when the VC fired, and I knew that I was had. Warpane just swatted the round out of the sky.

We took off back into the gym. jungle. Hang on, Private Neely, set him alone. Are you saying that guy Warpaint swatted down a bullet that was fired at you? Did he bat it down with his AK-47? No, Sergeant, answered Neely. We dropped our A-Ks when we ran out of ammo. Warpaint just hit the bullet out of the sky, you know, like it was a fly. Mm-hmm, said the big first sergeant, looking jubiously at Captain Stableton, and Sergeant Brubaker. Obviously the VC soldier missed, said Captain Miesway. Now, continue your report, Neely.

Private Neely looked as if he was going to argue with the assertion that the enemy soldier missed, but instead he continued. Warpain and I crept the last mile back up to the base camp. I think we saw about a company-sized VC heavy weapons armament assembling on the side of the stream which we'd just crossed, probably more. Captain Miesway pulled out a map and set it down on Captain Stableton's desk, scanning the area that Private Neely had described.

Did you get the information that you needed, Captain Miesway? Asked Sergeant Brubaker. Hmm, I think so, answered Captain Miesway. I caught in that F-100 stride this morning, thinking that area was where the VC was assembling. Looks like I was half a click-off with my calculations. Good thing we missed, or else Neelyer was. and war paint would have been toast, but I know exactly where that bend in the stream is located,

where Neelyan Warpaint crossed, so I know precisely where the VC's assembly. Misway folded up his map and made for the tent flap. I've got to get to the battalion T.O.C. and have them call in Ardy and close air on that grid coordinates. Good job, Neely. Glad you made it back safely. Thank you, sir, said Neely as Misway exited the tent. The second later the battalion physician entered. Good morning, gentlemen, said the physician. Don't mind me.

I heard that we had a little lost private that crawled out of the bush this morning, who got pretty banged up. I'm just here to observe. Thanks, Doc, answered Captain Stapleton. We're almost done here. Them private Neely's all yours. Neely, can you finish your report? Where's war paint?

Well, sir, started Neely. We crawled out of the Johnson. about a hundred meters from the main gate of the fire base when Warpaint told me to go ahead and get back to my T.O.C. When I asked him why I wasn't coming, he said it was because he was zero days and a wake-up short. Oh, I was supposed to fly out of Donang and get back to the Philippines to catch that freedom bird home to the States Guild, said Warpains. My tour of duty in Vietnam ended two days ago. Wait, what? I said. You're crazy. You stayed an extra couple of days in Vietnam when you could be on your way home.

How are you Marines that stupid? Why do you stay? Well, Walpink gave out a big, hearty laugh. Because you were lost, kid. My platoon went out to find you. I couldn't leave no one of our guys were stuck out there in the triangle all by his lonesome. No way, kid. That ain't how my daddy raised me.

Warpaint put his hand on my shoulder, told me to go ahead and head back to the base, that he'd be fine getting to Donang to catch the freedom, bird back home. I turned and said, Thank you, Warpaint. You really are a legend. You really are a hero. I can never do what you do.

Warpaint smiled at me and said, you're kidding, kid. I'm no big deal. Hell, I can't do what you do, Sky Soldier. What are you talking about? I asked. Airborne, kid, said Warpaint. No way, not for this guy. Believe me, in my opinion, anyone who jumps out of a perfectly good airplane

like you sky-soldiers do. There's balls of steel. Now, go on, kid. Get out of here. Well, I turned around. Now as the last I saw a war paint. Finished Neely. Hang on, Private Neely, said the physician.

Who'd you say brought you out of the bush? Warpaint, sir, said Neely. The physician squinted down at Neely, as if examining him with his eyes. He then walked around the desk to where Captain Stableton was sitting and whispered in his ear. You sure, Doc? asked Stapleton, and the physician nodded.

I want to see, Doc, said Stapleton. Yep, agreed the physician. I think we all need to take a look. Nearly, everybody, follow me. The physician led them out and across the firebase to a large green tent on the right. The medical tent was quiet for now, with a few ambulatory cases laying in carts awaiting a dust-off to a hospital facility. The physician led the group to a private section at the back of the tent.

Five of the six beds were empty. A rubber body bag rested on the sixth bed. This part of the tent, unfortunately, was the final stop of too many soldiers before they were taken out of the battlefield. The physician unzipped the olive green bag. We asked him last night. A dust-off is coming to pick him up and out wounded to take them to Dar Nang later in the morning. He pulled back the flat. I don't doubt your story, Private Neely, but this is the

Marine named Warpaint, and he's been here since he passed away after his recant team was ambushed last night. Neely gonged, putting a shaking hand to his mouth. Private Neely, said first Sergeant Malone gravely, is this the Marine who helped you last night? Is this warping? Private Neely nodded. recognizing the familiar camouflage paint even under the dry blood on the big marines face suddenly warpane's arm rolled out from under the body bag clutched in his bloody right hand with his blood-soaked dog tags

tears fell from private neelie's face that's why you said the vc would never collect on your bounty right said neely because you wouldn't let him take it even after you died The physician gently lifted the dog tags from Warpaint's hands. I think

he'd want you to have this now, private Neely. We're going back into the triangle tomorrow, said Sergeant Brubaker. We could use all the help we can get. Are you up for it, Neely? Absolutely, said Neely, holding Warpaint's dog tags to his chest. I'm a mother-freaking sky-soldier.

Tales from the iron train. triangle, the forward observer. Operation Junction City, March 1967, Republic of South Vietnam. To say that private first-class Sam Salty Menendez was a cocky little sack of shit, would have been a complete understatement. The little Filipino American soldier was the best F.O. In the entire First Infantry Division's artillery battalion, and he wasn't afraid to flaunt that fact to anyone and everyone who cared to listen, and even to those who did not. You may have the power of 1,805mm howeces at your command. You'd often brag in the mess hall back at the 1st Infantry Division's base camp at D-Arne,

but they're useless without a good F-O out there with the grunts. Your artillery boys sitting safe and sound back in the rear are literally useless unless an F-O is out in the bush telling you where to point your gun to use. Saudi had a big mouth, even though salty menendez wasn't that particularly big kid. in fact he was a little on the scrawny side but he was always a bundle of energy and could hump twice his weight and gear through the bush with the best of them at his advanced individual training school at fort sill where he learned to be a forward observer it was clear that salty had certain skills and talents which shed him apart from the rest of his classmates so although salty looked like the classic example of a bookworm nerd which included the big black rim army-issue glasses he wore his overbearing self-confidence and his ability ability to walk the walk and talk the talk, along with his physically bigger and more muscular comrades, endeared him to his classmates to the point of being annoyed. As a forward observer, it was sought his job to go out with the regular infantry shows and

seek out the enemy. Sometimes in Vietnam, you found the enemy, but 11 times out of 10, the enemy found you first. In either case, when it occurred, you needed artillery and you needed it accurate and fast. It was the job of the forward observer to reverse. It was the job of the forward observer to relay that critical information, the who, what, where, where and why, and how much high explosives to use, back to the rear so the artillery boys could start sending 105mm high explosive rounds in your direction. Well, on the surface, an FO's job was pretty simple. First, you find the bad guys, or just wait for them to eventually find you. Then you call back to the artillery boys waiting faithfully next to their howitzers to blow shit up. The FOC calls in one

adjusting round and watches where it lands in relation to the enemy. The FO then calls in another adjusting round, hoping to make it land on the opposite side of where the first round landed. If the FO is good, the enemy position would be located somewhere between where the first two rounds had landed. After that, the FO calls in adjustments slowly walking the high explosive rounds closer and closer towards the enemy until the rounds land on target. Once the adjusting rounds impact directly on top of the enemy position,

the FO calls fire for effect. At which time, multiple high explosive rounds are dropped on the enemy's head until they're pulverized into bloody X enemies. Well, naturally the enemy isn't just going to sit there and let those nasty round-eyed Americans liberate them to death. They'll constantly be moving to find cover and hopefully bring their own fire on the pesky American FO. So the FO will be constantly adjusting rounds

until the artillery boys get on targets. To do this accurately and swiftly, the FO needs to be spot on in rating a map and pinpointing grid coordinates. The FOO needs to be good at judging distance, estimating range in accurately reading compass directions. Also being good at trigonometry was a definite plus. And that little shit, salty menander's had all of these things in spades, along with a cocky ego that was far too big for an entire airport division.

During training back at Fort Sill, private menendors usually only needed to call one or two adjustment rounds, on a stationary target before calling fire for effect. In the more difficult mission of hitting a moving target, Salty usually needed to expend just four adjusting rounds before calling for fire for effect. Then, in December 1966, Private Sam, Salty Menendez graduated at the top of his forward observer class at 4-Sill

and was promoted to private first class. Shortly after the Christmas holiday, Salty and most of his classmates found themselves on a transport plane headed towards the war in Vietnam. Salty and three of his F.O. classmates from Fortsill, Haydn, French and McDermott, found themselves at the massive army camp base at Dianne, and assigned to the famous U.S. Army First Infantry Division. The division was known as the Big Red One, due to the big, stylized No. 1, colored red,

emblazoned on the unit patch, which was shaped like a shield. The four newbie FOs had exactly three weeks to acclimatized of the humid, sticky jungle weather and the smell of mould and stale air. The big red one was busy getting ready to leave Dianne, to participate in Operation Junction City, the military's largest operation in Vietnam to date, aimed at destroying the Viet Cong in a large area of South Vietnam in what was known as the Iron Triangle. The four FOs had been attached to the Ford Observer Company of the division's artillery battalion. The artillery battalion was short of qualified FOs as novice forward observers had a

nasty habit of returning from extended feel operations as the creamy filling of a green rubber body back. Haydn, French and McDermott were naturally apprehensive, having to prepare to go out and face an enemy which had fought the mighty US military to a standstill for so many years. They only had two or three occasions to practice calling for artillery fire around the base camp before it was time to step off and invade the enemy-held territory, nicknamed Indian country by the infantry soldiers who ventured into the iron triangle and lived to tell about it. For his part, Salty seemed genuinely looking forward to going into the iron triangle. Oh, this is the big red one, guys.

He said to his buddy, as they were cleaning their M-16s in their squad tent and making final preparations to move out of the base. These guys know what they're doing. Besides, you get me out there, I'll get a few years off this war. This isn't far as well, Salty, said Frenchie. "'Sulty's best friend since basic training. "'These things are different when they're shooting back at you.' "'Eh, said Salty.

"'That's what the infantry Joes are for. "'They do all the return firing while we call in the artillery and put steel on targets.' "'Geeze, Salty,' said Hayden, "'taking a break from packing to shovel a spoonful of sea rationed weeners and beans into his mouth. "'If they could turn your ego into a bomb, this will be over tomorrow.' I can't help being the best, baby, replied Salty, clicking the bolt and upper receiver of his M-16 back and forth, ensuring that it was cleaned and oiled and would work properly.

The VC and nothing but little starving yellow bastards, little rice-eaten cowards and bullies. I'm going to enjoy force-feeding the Viet Cong a few hundred rounds of high explosives. McDermott rolled his eyes. Man, Salty, you're Asian, you're Filipino rights. "'Semantics,' Salty waved his hand dismissively. "'Besides, I hate rice.' The next morning eight Olive Drabb US Army UH-U-H-H-1 Huey utility helicopters

transported the company out to Dian on a 45-minute trip east to the battalion's forward-operating base just west of the Iron Triangle. The mess hall had served a particularly hardy breakfast meal which Hayden managed to bath out of the Huey's open-side door, much to the consternation of the helicopter's door-gunner, who now had ham and egg vomit all over his jungle boots. The formation circled over one of the first infantry division's forward-operating bases that was located in the middle of a swallow valley of tall, sawgrass and reeds,

with densely tree-covered foothills and mountains bracketing the base on the north, south and west, while a stream ran across the eastern perimeter. Salty leaned over and looked down at the base as the helicopters made their final approach to the LZ, the landings on. He could see that the base was still under-conceived. construction, as shirtless soldiers were toiling away, stringing up razor wire around the perimeter, filling sandbags for bunkers and tents, and digging out machine gun and fighting positions. Towards the centre of the base, Sauty saw two pits dug out of the red clay earth, each holding

two eighty-one millimeter mortars. About two hundred meters east of the mortars, a large firing position was dug out which held a battery of four of the army's new M102-105-millimeter her howitzers. It was barely after nine o'clock in the morning, and although this was the temperate dry season in Vietnam, he was already showing signs of being a muggy and humid day. The helicopters had no sooner touched down to the flat LZ, and a big senior NCO appeared at the open cargo door, yelling and screaming at the young nine GIs to get their gear and their asses out of the chopper now. Jesus, age Christ, you sacks or shit, yelled the shaven-headed senior NICS. wearing a pair of sunglasses, a cigar clenched between his teeth.

This isn't a fucking picnic, ladies. Mr. Victor isn't waiting here to serve you finger sandwiches and lemonade. This is fucking Indian country, and if you don't want to be a notch in some VC sniper rifle, you will unass this chopper now. What the hell kind of slow-ass losers are they contaminating my beloved United States Army with these days? The senior NCO, still at least six feet, three inches, glad at the nine FNGs, who've been packed in the Huey helicopter, barely hiding his disgust as the brand-new GIs with their clean, unfaded olive uniforms seem to be taking their own sweet time getting out, even though they were clumsily stumbling and bumbling to jump out as quickly as possible. Even salty scrambled to grab his pack in his rifle as he hurried to jump out of the helicopter's sliding door, not wanting to piss off the angry NCO more than he already had.

Get off my damned LZ and get into that bunker over there before the VC begins lop and rounds at us. He yelled at the new arrivals. Then, turning, he yelled every shoulder to four soldiers, waiting at the edge of the LZ. What hell are you idiots waiting for? Grab those bags of Donnage and trash and throw it in the back. back of the chopper. You're in the middle of fucking Vietnam. You're not at home where mommy's going to make your bed for you and throw out your damn trash. Salty peered out of the wooden frame which formed the entrance into the sandbag and aluminum roof bunker, noting that the big

sergeant was still yelling at the four soldiers on garbage detail even after they tossed the trash into the helicopter and the helicopter was lifting off. Get your asses back to your work details. He continued yelling at the unfortunate garbage detail. I want that new machine gunner bunk dug out by noon, and I want a hundred meters of ground cleared from in front of the first and second squads fighting positions. Now, get the hell out of my face. From behind Salty, Private Hayden gulped as they all watched the big, bald-headed sergeant stomped towards the bunker, massive suntaned muscles bulging out from rolled-up uniform sleeves, his M-16 looking like a matchstick in his meaty hands. He had the rank of Sergeant First Class E-7 and wore two first-in-year-old.

Infantry Division patches, one sewn on each sleeve, meaning that he had survived more than one combat tour in Vietnam with the first infantry division. See, that guy makes our drill sergeants look like a bunch of lady parts, whispered McDermott. I bet John Wayne shines his boots. I wonder if he's going to be a platoon sergeant, said one of the other green UGIs. Well, I hope not, thought salty, as the big sergeant pushed through the entrance and storked into the bunker. Without stopping for introductions, the big sergeant yelled,

Which ones are you numb-nuts at 11 bravos? He scanned the faces of the new soldiers who were looking dumbly up at him. Come on, come on, come on, come on, I got a water fight, and I don't have time to wait on... I'm 11 bravo, said a skinny black kid standing in the back of the bunker and raising his hands. Yeah, so are we, said a white kid, nodding to a shorter Hispanic kid standing next. to him. We're 11, Bravo. We graduated infantry school from Fort Benning together. Geez, they graduated you younger and younger, don't they? said the sergeant, shifting the cigar in his mouth. Any of you get laid before you left the States? No matter, he grunted. You killers are getting

ready to head into the valley of death where, if you ain't careful, you will be well and truly fucked. I'm Sergeant First Class Pretty because he removed the cigar from his mouth and held at his arms. Well, just look at me. I'll be your platoon sergeant and I'll be the prettiest thing you'll ever see in Vietnam, so get used to it. Welcome to Alpha Company, First Battalion, 16th Infantry Regiment. Boys, you're in the same unit that took the Normandy beaches from the damn Nazis in World War II. And we're going to take this damned iron triangle from the damn commies. Just do as you're told. Don't do anything stupid.

Follow my lead and you'll walk out of the iron triangle in one piece. Trust me, boys. This ain't Sergeant Pretty's first rodeo. He put the cigar back in his mouth, smiling in a cocky manner which surprisingly calmed the new soldiers. Who all here's a mortar chucker? Who hears 11, Charlie? This time two souls.

just quickly raised their hands. We're 11 Charlie Mortarman, Sergeant, said a muscular young black soldier. Sergeant Pretty smiled. Good. Sergeant Brickhouse is going to love seeing you guys. The motor section's down three guys. It seems they got the running trots

from drinking the water from that stream you saw at the Easter here. That's explosive diarrhea, ladies. It'll put you down faster than AK-47 rounds. Remember, boys, don't drink no water around here until you sanitize it first. They got shit in the water that'll make your pecker fall off if you ain't careful. Sergeant Pretty looked at the last four newcomers of the group,

and Salty, Haydn, French, and McDermott stared at the sergeant in apprehension. Oh, said Sergeant Pretty. Who the hell are you, little shits? What good are you to my beloved fire base? We're 13 Fox, said Salty. artillery forward observers. Hmm, I see, said Sergeant Priddy, dubiously, inhaling his cigar and blowing a puff of smoke which seemed to engulf the bunker.

You redlegs any good? Interrogated Sergeant Pretty, calling the F.O.'s by their traditional army nickname of Redlegs. We are, said Salty. We like to think we are. Just then, two mortar rounds exploded in the middle of the helicopter landing zone, throwing black smoke and red clay into the air. Fortunately, the helicopters had long since departed, although there were still a great deal of consternation and yelling amongst the soldiers who were at the LZ perimeter

who were busy digging fighting positions and implacing razor wire. Oh, hope you better than that VC forward observer, said Sergeant Pretty, pointing a thumb out into the jungle. If he were any good, you'd all be dead by now. But I'm sure he's just throwing out the challenge to you, boys. Anyway, for your sakes, I hope you're better than the last new guy effort we lost, said the sergeant, lighting his cigar again. What, um, what happened to him, Sergeant? Gold French. His name was private. Forget his name. An FNG, just like you guys.

We've been out on patrol in the bush a few times with some other platoons, but nothing happened. Then one day, he was attached to my platoon during one of our first patrols into the iron train. or we got into a scrap with Mr. Victor. They opened up on us from a tree line 200 meters away with small arms and a machine gunfire. Lieutenant Hastin pulled us back and we had a Mexican standoff with the VC. Usually the lieutenant would be the one calling in direct fire,

but since we had an FO, the lieutenant showed Private Affigetti's name, where he wanted the rounds placed. The FO called him one adjustment, 81mm, around. It landed almost directly on top of his head. Well, there wasn't much left of my lieutenant or that dumb son of a bitch, F.O. to put in a damn sandwich bag. Sergeant Pretty took out his cigar and pointed it threateningly at the four forward observers.

I don't care how shit-hard you were in training. I don't care if you can drop a 155mm round into a damn bucket at 20 miles. That was just training. This is the real world with real consequences. If you get so screwed in the head by rifle fire impacting all around, you that your dumbass accidentally caused artillery on your own head, you know good to me. If any of you redlegs are attached to one of my patrols, you better not fuck up. I will kill you myself. Is that clear, red legs? Yes, Sergeant. He helped all four of the forward observers in

unison. Good, smiled Sergeant pretty. Now that we got that straight. Come the hell out of my bunker. The artillery command post is that big tent you saw to the north of the artillery battery. as you were flying in. Infantry of motors, you follow me. UFOs know where your command post is located. Now, get. Get the hell out of my bunker. Upon arriving at the artillery command post, the four new forward observers met the artillery unit's first sergeant, who in turn, introduced them to the new F.O. platoon sergeants. The F.O. platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Blanchard, was nothing like Big Sergeant First Class pretty. He was thinner, with bushy hair and was reserved at the point of being introverted.

The F.O. Platoon Sergeant showed them the tent where they could stow their gear, and showed them where the mess tent was, where they could grab chow. He explained that the F.O. section was stretched pretty thin and that the other FOs were out on missions. Staff Sergeant Blanchard was pleasant enough, but he was nowhere near as charismatic or inspired as much confident as Sergeant Priddy, and strangely, salty and the rest of the new Fos were

disappointed. The four found empty cots in the tents. There were 12 carts in total arranged in two rows inside the tent and the four sat in silence, trying to take in the sights, sounds and smells with their new home for the next few weeks. The window flaps of the tent were rolled up, allowing the humid air to circulate the musty air around. A pile of the red clay sand sat next to the tent, along with two pallets of sandbags and two shunnels. The previous foes had already begun lining the tent with a wall of sandbags, but the project was far from completion.

Sergeant Blanchard instructed them to spend the rest of the day filling sandbags and lining their tent after they secured their gear. Three soldiers filling sandbags while one soldier still guard, just in case a VC decided to take pot shots at them. Soon, all four of them had removed their sweat, soaked t-shirts and uniform tops. Their skin itching with the grid of the dirt and clay as they laboured away filling sandbags. Occasionally a Huey helicopter or a larger Chinook helicopter would land at the LZ, unloading replacements or supplies and equipment, and the road to down draft would provide a brief and pleasant feeling breeds. On one occasion, a helicopter with a red cross on the side landed, and six medics emerged from the medical tank carrying three stretches between them. There were three green rubber body bags on them.

Oh, shit, said McDermott, throwing a filled sandbag down next to their tent. Is that what I think it is? They stopped their labour, watching silently as the three dead American soldiers, were placed into the Med-EVAC helicopter for their final trip home. All of a sudden, a voice yelled, fire mission, coming from the artillery battery, which was positioned 100 metres to the west where the F.O. Living Tent was located. Artillery red-leg soldiers ran from their bunkers to man the guns,

turning cranks to elevate and rotate the gun tubes to the proper elevation in Azimel. Four other red-legs stood by, three of them the new guys who'd arrived with the FOs earlier. a 34-pound high-explosive round cradled in their arms. Somewhere out in the jungle, an American forward observer was calling for artillery against the enemy. Once the howitzer gun shoes were pointed in the right direction, the loaders rammed high-explosive rounds into the breach, which slammed shut with a loud, metallic thunk. Fire!

Came the order from the gun-sheets, and the entire base rocked with the sound of outgoing artillery fire. Fire. Fire, fire. The order was given several times, and each time a high explosive round boomed out of the tubes and flew over out into the jungle. Seconds later, the qum, chum, chum, sound of explosive rounds crashed in the distance. It was frighteningly close, no more than two miles. Oh, man, said Frenchie.

That's close. Are the VC that close? Damn it, the old salty. tossing his entrenching tool into the pile of dirt. What the hell are we doing here? We need to be out there. I need to be out there. We ain't killing nobody just sitting here filling damn sandbags.

Two more fire missions were called before a dinner shower of overlooked spaghetti noodles and watery pasta were served, complete with two soggy dinner rolls and copious amounts of hot sauce. None of the other F.O.'s returned that night. They'd be out overnight with the platoons they were attached to. The new F.O. spent their first night in the field rotating on two-hour guard shifts out on the perimeter in a bunker which housed an M-60 machine gun that stared out into the pitch black jungle 300 meters away. Occasionally one of the mortars

would send up a flare round and for a few minutes the entire base and jungle tree line will be bathed in an eerie reddish pink glove. The night passed uneventfully and the four stumbled into their tent after a breakfast meal of toast powdered eggs fatty sausage watered down orange juice and and bananas. While they were at Chow, one of the veteran F.O.'s who'd been out the day before returned along with the infantry platoon he was supporting. He was a black soldier whose sweat-soaked and muddy uniform was sun-faded two shades from what his original olive drave colour used to be and whose helmet camouflage cover was frayed and ripped. Dryed mud and dirt covered his M-16, and he smelled of jungle and sweats. The young black soldier looked up with barely disguised

resentment to the new foes as they entered the tent. Oh, hey, said Frenchie. Always the most cordial of the fall. You must be one of the team. I... Save it, snap the exhausted black soldier, and Frenchie jumped back. You tell me your goddamn names in a couple of weeks, if you last that long. We've been going through you FNG's like diarrhea, and it's tiring just trying to keep up with

your names. I'm sorry, man, said Frenchie. I didn't. The black soldier just waved his hands dismissively. He stood up from his cot, grabbed his rifle, and put his helmet back on. Don't worry bad, man, we're cool. Then in a less pissed off, Tony said, well, they're serving for breakfast.

Wait, let me guess. Toast, powdered eggs, fatty sausage, and watered down orange juice. And bananas, piped in hiding. The black soldier rode his eyes. And bananas. As he made to leave the tent to go grab some breakfast, the soldier stopped in front of McDermott, who was also black? Where you from, new blood?

Brooklyn, answered McDermott. What part? North end, near Flatbush, answered McDermott. You? Brooklyn, south end, Bell Parkway, said the black soldier. He exiled. The name's Johnson. You meet the others later on.

Look, cats. You need to learn as much as you can while you're out here. I'm already sure you met Sergeant Blanchard. He's 30 days and a wake up short. Got one month left in Vietnam, so all he's thinking about is getting his ass out of the bush and back to his home in Redneck USA. Mind you, he did his time out in the bush, but he ain't looking to teach you guys anything. Look, cats, said Johnson. We started out five months ago with 16 FOs. Of the original 16 of us, Only me and Cooper are left. The other two F-O's, Mastery and Diggerson, are the ones who are left of the replacements. Well, we'll teach you why we can,

but you need to absorb it quick, like a sponge. Thanks, brother, said McDermott, holding out his hand. I'm a... I know who you are, brother, said Johnson. Your name's on your damn uniform. I'm just not going to learn your names until you prove your newbie asses aren't going to get blown away. We'll talk later,

cats. Johnson then pushed back the tent flap and trudged towards the mess tanks. Yeah, and I hope your ass makes a detour to the showers before you get back, said Salty. Suddenly Salty clapped his hands and smiled. Hey, you know what that means? With all four of the current FOs coming back from missions, that means they're going to need a little recovery time. That means we'll be the next ones to be called out. I cannot wait to unload some high explosive on some VCS. McDermott shook his head, slumping back down in his cons. You're hopeless, you know that, Salty. Completely hopeless.

Salty turned out to be correct in his assessment as both French and McDermott were called to see Sergeant Blanchard and the artillery commander, Captain Greenbaum, at the Tock, the tactical operations centre. The next mission was going to be a classic hammer and anvil attack against the VC in the Iron Triangle, a heavily reinforced mechanized unit consisting of M-113, tracked armored vehicles called APCs, armoured personnel carriers, each mounting one M2 heavy machine

gun and two M60 general purpose machine guns would be supporting the mission. This force would act as the anvil, stationing themselves in the shallow valley across from where the base camp is located seven miles into the iron triangle. The second force, acting as the hammer, consisted of two infantry companies using helicopters to airlift deeper into the iron triangle. Once they land, the infantry would begin pushing towards the armored force of APCs, driving the VC in front of them. Frenchie will go with the anvil section, which would be riding out of their engagement area, atop the box-shaped armored personnel carriers. McDermott would be flying out with the hammer section, which would be dropping some six

kilometers away from the anvil section. Both of the F.O.'s would be attached to the command section of their respective combat elements. Their mission was to last no more than two or three days, and Frenchie and McDermott were told to keep that in mind as they pat their gear. equipment and rifle. Predictably, Salty was furious when he wasn't chosen to go on the mission, and he raged around the tent, bitterly complaining to Haydn. He stood outside their tent and watched with barely contained envy, feeling betrayed

as his best friend Frenchie threw his gear atop one of the ten armored vehicles, which was festooned with machine guns and mechanized infantry soldiers, as they roared out of the heavily guarded main gate of the base camp. Frenchie knew how bad I wanted to get out there. he could have said he was sick, thought Salty. French he could have told them and I could take his place. Some friend you'd turn out to be, you asshole. Thirty minutes later, the air around the base camp beat with a

of a dozen Huey helicopters which landed to pick up the first company of infantry soldiers who be the hammer in this attack. Again, Softie watched as McDermott threw his pack inside his designated chopper and soon he and the rest of the soldiers were lifted into the sky on the beating rotor blades as 12 helicopters turned southwest into Indian country. Within minutes, a second wave of 12 helicopters landed to pick up the rest of the attacking force, which were waiting on the LZ for transport into the iron triangle. Sooner was relatively quiet on the base,

save for the rapidly fading sound of Huey helicopters beating the air. Salty stood alone outside the tent, bitter and frustrated. Saudi and Hayden hung around the T-O-C, eavesdropping on the radios to hear what was going on with the mission. They sat around trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, so as not to be called to any work details. The armored vehicle forced Frenchie was attached to was seven miles away travelling cross-country

and was about two miles from where they were going to set up the trap in the other valley. The helicopters had already dropped off the infantry company that McDermott was attached to on the opposite ridge line, they were already pushing across the jungle towards the armored vehicle. The second force of helicopters had reported receiving sporadic small arms and machine gun fire from the surrounding hills, but had also successfully dropped off their infantrymen, and they were pushing up the slopes of the ridge. Though the enemy was proving to be in the area, there were no solid contacts. The VC seemingly contented just to take pot shots at the Americans engaging their strength.

Then, a little bit afternoon time, the radios in the TOC lit up with reports of the AH1. C. H-1 Cobra gunships, which were circling protectively overhead, were coming under heavy fire from hidden VC machine guns. These H-1-C-cobra gunships, which were fitted with multiple machine guns, rocket launchers and grenade launches, immediately dived on their attackers. However, as the gunships pulled away, the armored force, which was acting as the anvil, immediately came under fire from multiple VC snipers and RPGs, coming from the jungle 300 meters to their front and left side. With the gunship cover gone for the moment, the commander at the sea called for indirect fire support. Now, just outside the TOC's main entrance, Salty could hear Frenchi's voice over the fire direction control radio.

Frenchie was in the command vehicle with the element commander and calling for adjusting fire rounds against the offending tree line which hit the VC. Immediately, the red legs manning the howitzers at the base camp sprang into action, pointing their gun tubes into the sky, and within minutes they were firing high explosive rounds into the grid coordinates that French he had given them. Salty was beside himself with rage and jealousy as he stood outside of the TLC. He wanted to be the first one out of the group to call a fire mission. He wanted to be the first one to pound the VC with high explosives. But instead, it was that traitor friend of his who was out there getting all the glory. How could French he be so selfish? It wasn't fair.

Salty stormed off towards his tent, his anger and jealousy growing with every shot that the howitz has fired. As Salty and Haydn walked back to the tent, they saw a tired-looking soldier lounging on the sandbags in front of the entrance. His boots muddy in his long brown hair a mess. He was sipping on a warm can of Coke and looked at Soddy and Haydn with disdain. Is that you raising a fuss? said the soldier. The name on his faded green uniform red, Cooper. "'The other members of the team are in their barracks asleep "'after being out in the bush for four days,

"'and you're out here whining like a baby.' "'Sorry,' said Salty, unapologetically, "'as he made to enter the tent.' "'Ho, hang on, newly,' said Cooper, "'extending his leg and blocking the entrance with his boots. "'Saltie stopped. "'Yeah, you too,' said Cuba, "'pointing with his coat-can at Hayden.

"'Maybe you didn't hear what I just says.' "' Them boys in there have a very of a very "'and then boys in there have been out in the bush for days on end, slugging through the jungle looking for Mr. Victor. They earned the right to sleep during the day. Cooper looked at Salty. You telling me that you expect us to come out here and do your jobs for you there, private meningitis? No, said Salty.

And it's private first-class menendez. Whatever, newbie, said Cooper, sitting back. Till you prove your worth, you're just private, I forget his name. Either way, you ain't getting that ten. until tonight's. Besides, you've got work to do. What do we need to do? asked Haydn, looking to smooth the situation between Salty and Cooper. Cooper finished his coke and tossed it into an empty 55-gallon drum, which they were using as a trash can. First off, you newbies can take up all that trash in our area and get it ready for pickup tomorrow morning, said Cooper.

Then after that, Cooper pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the pile of red sand and clay resting next to the stack of sandbag. They ain't going to fill themselves. Stack them wide and stack them tall. Salty rolled his eyes, giving out an exasperated huff as he stomped towards the shelves. Haydn gave Cooper an apologetic look. Ah, let me guess, Nuby, said Cooper, stopping Haydn. He was your goddamn distinguished honor graduate at 13 fuck school. Hayden nodded.

Well, you better watch your buddy, Nuby, said Cooper. His ass still thinks he's back on the block. One thing you'll learn is that out here, the VC doesn't give a rat's ass about our artillery. The hammer and an anvil mission ended late the next day, and an exhausted French in McDermott returned to the tent in time for dinner, chow. Aside from calling in artillery fire on the enemy early on in the operation yesterday, French also called in artillery during the night,

hitting predetermined plots on the map to hopefully catch the enemy while they were moving under cover of darkness. Likewise, when the hammer element took defensive positions at the hilltop that night, McDermott had called for illumination rounds to keep the enemy off balance. Unfortunately, when the infantry company eventually linked up with their armoured support, there had been no significant engagements with the enemy except for occasional sniper fire and fleeting glimpses of black-clad Vietnamese carrying AK-47s and RPGs, scrambling into the jungle and disappearing.

Searches of where the friendly artillery had stretched, truck proved fruitless, as no sign of enemy casualties could be found. No blood, no bandages, no body parts, nothing but holes in the jungle and wasted American tax dollars. Still, the enemy had been there, as McDermott's infrantly-internity element had stumbled upon some recently abandoned VC campsites where the Americans had captured several bags of rice, three bicycles, and two enemy RPGs. There was water still boiling in Tim Potts, meaning that the VC had escaped. melting into the jungle just moments before the Americans had arrived. This was the only spoils which the Americans could claim for the entire mission.

In return, four Americans had been injured, two who had been tripped by cleverly hidden VC booby traps, and two who had been wounded by snipers. They were all around us, said McDermott in a hushed tone in the mess hall. Yeah, we couldn't see them, even with the illum rounds overhead. But we could feel them around us. I could hear them. Shit, I could even smell them.

McDermott shouted. Welcome to the Iron Triangle, brother, said Johnson. That mission was a cake war. Don't worry, though. Three hundred and thirty more days and you'll be out of Vietnam. Salty and Hayden sat in rapt attention as Frenchy relayed the account of how he had called artillery fire from the back of the APC command track on suspected sniper positions, but how the search ultimately came up empty.

The four veteran F.O.s, Cooper, Johnson, Massey, and Dickerson just ignored him as if they'd heard the same thing hundreds of times. They talked amongst themselves, mostly about how many days they were short before they could go home, meaning salty sat fuming until Sergeant Blanchard entered the mestead. Hey, guys, said Sergeant Blanchard to his veteran FOs. How'd he go? "'Same old,' said Cooper, biting down in an apple. "'How are you doing?' said Johnson. "'Twenty-three days, and I'll wake up, and I'm out of here,' said Sergeant Blanchard. "'Well, who's counting, right?' Blanchard put a hand on Cooper's shoulder. "'Yeah, specialist Cooper, when I leave, you'll be in charge until they bring in a replacement.

"'Hell, they'll have to promote you to Sergeant.' "'Can't wait,' said Cooper, greeting the news, the enthusiasm of a rainstorm at a picnic. Hey, Blanche, he said. Who do we have up for the next mission? Well, that's what I came in here for, answered Blanchard. I'd and men in a minute is. I need to see you two at the talk immediately after chow.

Hey, Sarge, said Johnson. Them cats just got here. They need time to... All better teacher than experience, right? interrupted Blanchard. Fifteen minutes be at the talk. Hyden went pale, but inside Salty Menendez was screaming with excitement in anticipation. Now we're going to get the show on the road, proclaim Salty happily.

He was back in his tent and packing his gear after the meeting at the top. The next morning's mission into Indian country was going to be similar to the last hammer and anaville maneuver, only with two infantry companies stealthily sneaking into position to create the anvil while the louder armored personnel carriers being the hammer. It was hoped that the noisier and more imposing armored vehicles would be more intimidating which would drive the VC into the waiting ambush of the American infantryman. Both Salty and Hayden will be attached to one of the infantry companies that will be acting as the anvil, waiting to call in artillery when the VC finally showed their faces.

This mission was only going to last one day, also in the hopes that the lightning fast charge of the APCs would catch the VC off guard and not allow them time to escape. "'No offense, boys,' continued Salty, as he stuffed an extra poncho and two pairs of socks into his rucksack, that this little Filipino headhunter is going to show you what a real forward observer can do. "'You for real?' yelled Johnson. Then turning to Hayden, he yelled. "'Is this arrogant little shit for real?'

"'He's been like that since Fort Sill,' shrugged Hayden as he packed his gear. "'Saltie, bro,' said McDowell. this ain't like training this stuff out there that training at Fort Seale can't prepare you for what you're going to face Listen to your buddy, new guy said Cooper

He's just been on one mission And already he knows they don't teach you jack's shit back at Fort Sil Look, said Salty I appreciate what you've all gone through Really, I do But you all are just a bunch of round eyes You ain't like me

Salty Said Frenchie Listen to Cooper he's right. You may be in a god at Fort Sill, but out there, well, out there you're only as bulletproof as your own skin. Don't let you me, Frenchy, yelled salty, finally letting his resentment for his friend come out. Don't you tell me what it's like in the jungle. Look, I grew up in the Philippines. I grew up in the damn jungle. What do you call scary? I call home. My father was a Filipino scout in World War II. He kept fighting the Japs long after you round.

surrendered to the Japanese like a bunch of sissies. So you lady parts can sit around here and cry, oh, what with me, all you want. I'm going out there to help win this war. It was almost three hours after the helicopters dropped the infantry company off in a valley deep in the Iron Triangle early the next morning. As luck would have it,

Salty and Hayden were attached to Sergeant First Class Pretty's platoon, and he was in rare form at 0500 hours when his company boarded the helicopters. He grabbed the two F-O's before they boarded their helicopters And with a piercing gaze said Don't either of you FOs fuck up Do I make myself clear? Salty smiled

You point to them, I'll kill them He yelled under the whirring of the chopper blades It all happened so quickly so fast That Salty didn't remember how he ended up lying on the ground Next to Haydner's dead body The drop off into the LZ went smoothly The infantry company was on a relatively flat plain of tall grass and steadily moving eastwards towards a strand of trees.

Salty and Hayden were with the command element of the platoon, with Sergeant First Class Pretty, the platoon leader, and the platoon machine gunty. Hayden was humping the radio and Salty had the map. Since they both agreed that Salty was better at map reading and fixing coordinates, he would be the one to read the target grid coordinates and Hayden would relay the data back to Captain Greenbaum. at the fire base. As the platoon entered the strand of trees, Salty said, hang on, Hayden,

as he went to unbuckle his trousers while walking up to a thick palm tree. The thought of calling in Artie on the VC is making me so excited I need to piss. So, as the platoon exited the tree line and continued walking across the plain of tall grass beyond, Hayden waited with Salty

as he finished his business on the side of the tree. Meanwhile, Sergeant Priddy was yelling instructions to his soldiers as they steadily but carefully cross the open space. First squad, you're bunching up, spread out, five to ten meters. Moving, you're at the first squad in response. Keep an eye out for wires and dug up dirt. Yard Sergeant Pritty.

The fucking VC are masters that hide in booby traps. Second squad, you need to keep an eye on the treeline up front. Be sure that you got range estimation for the damn thumper. Right now, we're at about 300 meters. When we get halfway across, we'll be 150. You got that, Maxie? Roger that, Sarge, yelled the Grenadier. Then, noticing that his radio man was no longer with the lieutenant,

Sergeant Priddy turned back to the tree line and angrily yelled, Hey, you redlegs, what the hell are you doing? You're going to help him shake it when he's done? Get that damn radio up here with the lieutenant. Hyden Golt. I'm moving, Sarge. as soon as Haydn emerged from the tree line, a loud crack echoed across the field.

Haydn's head snapped back, bone and brain matter flying everywhere. The platoon went to ground as the tree line opposite the Americans opened up in a hail of AK-47 and machine-gun rifle fire. Salty was still standing inside the tree-line in a state of shock, looking at what was left of his dead friend's ruined head. Maxie, y'allup, Sergeant Pretty.

get that damn thomper going Max has been hit yelled one of the soldiers in his squads Sergeant Pretty then looked towards Salty Oh damn it redleg Get the hell on that phone and call an Ardy on that damn tree line

Tell the firebase we got about a company Worth of VC fire netters Snaped out of his trance Salty jumped down into the prone And immediately began low crawling To where Hayden's body lay Fire mission Fire mission

Troops in contact stuttered Salty nervously into the radio handmark. It was still attached to the radio on Haydn's back and covered in his sticky blood. One round. One round. Adjust. Greek coordinates. Foxtruck, Yankee. muttered Salty as he fumble around with a map in his hands. Check fire. Check fire. Check fire. Interrupted Captain Greenbaum, the artillery commander back at the firebase.

F.O. You need to. to re-check your sector plot. That coordinate will have a shooting into China. Salty gaulted, looking at his map again, sweat ran into his eyes and foiled up his glasses. He poured them off as the staccato rhythm of machine gun fire increased overhead. The loud boom, boom, boom, of several VC heavy machine guns drowned out the lighter of the one American M60 machine gun, and so he could hear wounded soldiers crying out for the medic. "'Correction, correction,' said Salty nervously over the radio. "'Fire mission. One round adjust.

"'Gridors, Yankee Fox Strut, 769-00344.' "'Check fire! Check fire!' yelled Captain Griemam again. "'Damn it, F.O. That sector coordinate will have our howitz is facing "'in complete the opposite direction.' "'God damn it,' yelled Sergeant Pretty to Salty. "'He was hunkered down behind a dirt mound along with the bulletin. Toom's machine gun team while the tenant was desperately spotting for targets. Although Sergeant Pretty was 20 meters away from Salty,

he could still see the unbridled hatred and disgust in Priddy's eyes. God damn you, Redleg. I got wounded people that need attention, but my medics can't get to them. Now either you get your head out of your ass and call that mission, or you get your ass up and walk that damn radio to me, and I'll call the mission for you, your little shit. Saltie lay there. stunned as RPG explosions began to mix in with the small arms fire that was raining down on the Americans.

More yells rang out as more soldiers got hit. Time seemed to move slowly and his ears rang. Soldier had completely forgotten all of his training. He'd completely forgotten everything he'd ever boasted about. He simply laid there, mouth open, eyes wide, and stared with disbelief as Sergeant Pretty instructed his machine gunners to point the M60 at Salty. you could barely register Sergeant Pretty yelling, Do your damn job, F.O.

Or I swear I'll kill you myself. You're getting my people killed. Salty closed his eyes. More than anything in the world, all Sam's salty Menendez wanted to be was an American. America was the land of freedom and opportunity. After serving his time in the army, Sam's path to American citizenship would be confirmed.

Then he could bring his family over from the Philippines. His mom wanted to open a bakery, his sister wanted to become a nurse, and his little brother just wanted to go to a good school. They could all do all of that in the States. But first Sam needed to become a citizen. His family back in Manila was counting on him. But to make it in America, an Asian immigrant had to be better than everyone else. They had to be the best of what they did in order to stand out and get ahead. Sam hated the so-called anti-war protesters that he saw in the streets of America.

burning and looting the cities and supporting the communists. Sam hated them because they'd absolutely no idea how privileged and lucky they were to be living in America. The words of JFK had always inspired Sam with patriotic pride, even though he wasn't yet an American. Ask not what your country can do for you, but rather ask what you can do for your country. That's what Sam wanted, to serve the great nation called America, get rich but take nothing away from anyone else once his family made it to the states they would become rich and successful through hard work and patience and diligence they do it without taking a cent from the american taxpayers but first sam had to survive vietnam not only that he had to prove that he was a best damn

american f o in the entire iron triangle however as sam raised the radio mic to his lips he never stopped to realize that the vc had their own forward-observers too and one was better than him. Come on, son, urged Captain Greenbaum, as calmly as he could over the radio telephone. Calm down, remember your training, and give me those grid coordinates. It was static on the phone, followed by silence. Captain Greenbaum looked at his radio operator,

shaking his head when he realized that the line to his platoon was dead. He had no communication with his platoon, and little option left except to send another platoon into the Viet Cong meat grinder in order to rescue his trap platoon. Suddenly, the radio came to life. Cobradan, Copradan, this is Vipa Strike, Cobra Dan, this is Vipa Strike. Salty Menendez's voice was loud and strong over the command radio channel. Vipar Strike, this is Cobra Dan, said Captain Greenbaum.

Sit, Rapper, over. "'Gobridan,' said salty. "'Sitrap. "'C Company-sized VC element dug into our south. "'Vipra element is pinned down, danger close. "'Fire mission. "'Shell, high explosive, fuse, quick. "'Grid, Yankee Fox truck 34451-769-0.

"'20 rounds. "'Fire for effect.' "'Viber strike, Viper strike,' "'you know Captain Greenbaum. "'Say again. fire for effect? Are you sure that you don't need to adjust? Negative, Cobradan, replied Salty. The grid coordinates are accurate. No adjusting rounds needed.

I say again, no adjusting rounds needed. Fire for effect. Twenty rounds, fire for effect. Captain Greenbaum's radio operator looked up at him. Doubt was etched all over Captain Greenbaum's face. The FO on the other line was calling for the complete destruction of the grid coordinate. given first without making sure that the rounds would hit precisely where he wanted them to be. Plus, there was an American platoon of at least 30 soldiers within 500 meters

where the FO was calling for the high-explosive rounds to fall, making them danger close. One errant round could spell disaster for the Americans. Once a high-explosive round was fired, it could not be called back, and the consequences of a round falling short of the target would be devastating. Captain Greenbaum spoke again into the radio. Viper strike, I'm going to need confirmation on that grid before I'll authorise. No time for adjusting fire, yelled Salty. The coordinates are accurate.

The VC are going to start flanking us once we lose fire superiority. We need those rounds now. Captain Greenbaum looked towards his fire direction officer, who was staring at him intently. Those coordinates are in that platoon's area. of operations, said the fire direction officer. Send that mission down to the gunline, Lieutenant, said Captain Greenbaum. It's my call. Fire on those grid coordinates.

The fire direction officer gulped and nodded, then yelled over the gun battery radio. Fire mission, fire mission, fire mission. In less than ten seconds, the four howitzes outside began belching high-explosive rounds towards the exact coordinates which Salty had given. Later, back at the firebase, after Sergeant First Class Pretty had checked in on the condition of his platoon, he made his way to Captain Greenbaum's tent. Five of his soldiers had been wounded in the fight, including his lieutenant and his grenadier, but they were alive at least. The platoon had gotten off pretty lucky, despite the fact that his 30 soldiers had been ambushed by a company of over 100 VC fighters. It could have been far worse for the Americans, except the American artillery could have been.

completely shattered the VC forces. That artillery was spot on, Captain, said Sergeant Pretty. It was perfect. We're still policing up VC bodies, weapons, and equipment. That's what we're here for, Sergeant Pretty, smiled Captain Greenbaum. But, um, I'm curious, sir. How'd you know where to place the rounds? Said Pretty.

That was by far the most amazing example of blind firing I've ever seen. Captain Greenbaum looked up at Sergeant Pretty with a confused look on his face. Sergeant Pretty, I thought your F.O. called in the fire missions. This time it was Sergeant Pretty who had the stunned look on his face. Oh, sir. Our F.O. Private First Class, I forget his name, took a direct hit from a VC mortar and the radio was destroyed. He was killed before any of our artillery impacted on the Viet Cong. Tales from the Iron Triangle Rolling Hop

Operation Junction City March 1967 Republic of South Vietnam Railway 5 The VC were not in the village I say again The VC were not in Laokai village

What? He yelled the pilot Into his helmet-mounted radio Damn it Iron Hand You said the VC had occupied that village There was a second of silence As static noise crackled over the radio frequency. Answer me, Ironhand, yelled the U.S. Air Force F4 Phantom fighter pilot.

Was that the VC I just cooked back there? Or were those civilians? Railway 5 came the response after another pause. Company-sized VC element is a half-click southeast of Laukeye Village, attempting to flee into the jungle's head itself. We'll mark with smoke. Damn it! Yacht the pilot, as he yanked the stick of his fighter to the left.

banking his ungainly F-4 fighter into as tighter turn as it could muster, and applied throttle to the reverse course to head back to Laokai Village as quickly as possible before the VC escaped. "'Shit!' said the radar intercept officer, sitting directly behind the pilot. "'Shit! Shit! Shit! Both the F-Force pilot and his backseat Rio were tense and agitated, not wanting to think about the horrific mistake that they may have just made, much less speak about it. The pilot, Captain William Foxhound Blake, leveled his wings after his fighter emerged from under the cloud back while continuing his slight descent, trying to ignore the sight of the burning South Vietnamese farming village that was off to his one o'clock position, the village which he had just incinerated with napal moments ago.

The FAC, Ford Air Control aircraft was a small propeller-driven Cessna O2 Skymaster, which mounted pods of smoke rockets under its wing. The FACC's job was to locate VC positions, then fire the smoke rockets to mark the targets for the fast-moving fighter bombers, like Captain Blake's Air Force Phantom. A small FACCessna orbited lazily over the target area, circling a plume of red smoke, rising from the jungle where the air controller marked where he wanted the phantom to drop its payload of napole. "'Rowly,' said Captain Blake grimly, as he positioned his fighter for his attack run, aiming for the smoke marker fired by the fuck.

The roaring F4 Phantom pulled up slightly, the sound of the twin jet engines tearing through the sky as two silver canisters fell from underneath the wings. Immediately, the ground below the fighter jet erupted in a rolling sea of flaming, jelly gasoline and billowing black smoke, which was hotter than lava, and refused to be extinguished until everything in its path was nothing but ash. Captain Blake felt little Samuble.

satisfaction as he pulled out from his attack run. His Rio, Captain Richard Guzman, looked over his shoulder at the expanding sea of flame below them and said, good hit fuck sound. That struck dead center. Captain Blake's throat was dry, and he felt an increasing sense of dread as he banked his phantom north towards the sprawling Bien-Hau airbase that his tactical fighter squadron called home. Neither he nor his Rio spoke a word on the short flight back to base, each alone in their thoughts of a tragic mistake which they might have made and praying to God that it wasn't so. Blake could not get the picture of the burning village out of his mind, as his brain kept replaying over and over again the split second that he released his ordinance over the village.

As he pulled up, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the people below him. They were supposed to be VC. They were supposed to be the fucking communist Viet Cong. Captain Blake sat alone at the bar, inside the crowded Bienhow office. club, nursing his fifth rum and coke of the evening that the pretty little Vietnamese girl Kuan Lin had given to him. The Jew box seemed to be playing the same three songs, like my fire by the doors, something stupid by Frank and Nancy Sinatra, and grooving by the young rascals. Butts as kind of a drag by the Buckingham's began to play, Blake's mind drifted back to earlier

in the day when he and his Rio were in the squadron's ready room with the squadron commander, Major Keating, and the squadron operations officer, Captain Rasmussen, during the after-action mission debriefing. They weren't main force VC fighters, said Major Keating. But they were VC sympathizers. Why else would they had let the VC store so much food and ordnance in their village? You and I both know that's a crock of bullshit that those psych head shrinker guys like to say to us in order to keep us sane, said Blake.

Those people I killed today were innocent farmers. damn it. He's right, sir, added Guzman. If they were VC sympathizers, why do the VC prevent them from leaving the village? Major Keating folded his arms and nodded, looking down to the floor. He sighed.

Yeah, you're right. The VC more than likely for them to stay for the propaganda value. Look, gentlemen, said the operations officer, Captain Rasmussen. You and I both know that we're fighting a fulner. top war. This isn't like World War II and Korea where we had the lines of advance and retreat, and we knew who the fucking good guys were and

who the fucking bad guys were. Oh, here the VC and the NVA are out to fuck all of us and honest mistakes, though tragic, are going to happen. You're not the one who dropped the nape on those civilians, Razz, said Captain Blake. Captain Rasmus

in sight. No, I did not. And I pray to God that I will never feel the same way that you do now, buddy? You two are not murderers, said Major Keating. The fact that you feel so much remorse about what happened today proves it. VC orchestrated everything that happened at Laokai Village, and they won a propaganda victory. We just need to be more careful in the future. It doesn't feel right, sir, said Guzman, shaking his head.

War should never feel right, son, said Keating. Now I know that we're in the middle. of Operation Junction City, but I want you two to take the next few days off to relax and refocus. I'll need you guys back on the ramp in three days ready to go, understand. Yes, sir, replied Blake and Guzman in unison. They've been partners for the past six months flying in the same burden and gotten to know each other's mannerisms and habits quite well. Though they had dissimilar backgrounds, they worked well as a team.

Good, said Major Keating. Captain Rasmussen, take Browell. Blake and Guzman off the mission schedule for the next three days. At the end of the duty day, Captain Guzman, her devout Catholic, shouted and changed to go to the base chapel and pray his troubles away. Captain Blake hit the offices club to drink his away. The alcohol wasn't doing it for Blake,

and he hoped that Guzman was having better luck. An Air Force Major wearing an unusual green and olive tie of striped uniform and sporting a thick handlebar mustache, approached Blake from behind. is uh this stool taken captain blake blake turned to see the fack pilot and scooted over have a seat major kyle captain blake had worked with major michael kyle as his fack in the past in fact it was major kyle who was the fact in this last mission a fack's job wasn't easy flying low and slow hunting for the vc over territory where many bullets rose high and quick as expected The marks tended to get shot down a lot, hence the need for the non-traditional flying uniform. Can I buy your next round, Captain Blake? Said Major Kyle.

Oh, you don't have to, Mike, said Blake. In fact, can I buy you a drink? Major Kyle chuckled humorlessly. I take full responsibility for what happened today. I saw the VC end of the village, but I didn't see him leave until it was too late. It's those damn tunnels that they dig. said Blake. He can appear and disappear like they were ghosts.

Blake finished his drink, and instead of signaling the bartender, he returned and signalled to his favorite bar girl, Kwan Lin, for two more rounds of rum and coke. I'm sorry, man, said Major Kyle. It was my fault. I mean, you drop the name, but it was my fault. You can't blame yourself for what the VC did, Mike, said Blake, trying to be strong for his friend,

but seeing a flashback in his mind of the people he killed just before he pulled up from his attack. Ah, this is a fucked-up war, and the enemy are going to force us to make mistakes in a fight where we have to be absolutely perfect or else we lose the hearts and minds of the people. Captain Blake felt a gentle touch on his shoulders and heard a soft voice speak.

Mr. William, here are your drinks. Blake loved it when Quan Lin called him Mr. William instead of Captain Blake. For a fleeting second, it made him feel as if he weren't stuck in the middle of a fucked-up what he turned to see kwanlin her face melting her serving tray resting on skeletal hands where the flesh had peeled away kwanlin's long beautiful black hair had been burned to a crisp and a right eye dangled down out of her skull by a strip of muscle kwan lynn's skimpy pink uniform had been

burned away revealing a charred blackened rib cage as she smiled the flesh on her face melted away revealing the charcoal-coloured skull beneath. Blake could smell the reek of burning fuel coming from her. Mr. William, the thing said sweetly. Your drinks? Blake yelped and fell backwards off his stool, trying to back away from the hideous monstrosity that stood before him. Major Carl got up from his seat,

reaching down to help Blake to get back on his feet. Hey, buddy, are you okay? asked Major Kyle. Blake just scrambled back more. hitting his back against the bar as the burning skeletal thing that used to be Major Kyle reached down at him with claw-like hands. Blake closed his eyes and turned his head, throwing his arms up protectively over his face. Hey Bill, I think it's time for you to head back to your living quarters. Blake then opened his eyes and stared up, blinking his eyes until they focused.

Major Kyle and Quine Lin were looking down at him with worried expressions on their faces. The officer's club had gone quiet of all conversations as the other patrons stopped to stare at the typical cocky fighter-jock pilot who'd fallen off his barstool because he couldn't handle his liquor. White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane was playing on the jukebox. Captain Blake allowed Major Kyle to help him up. Are you okay, Bill? asked Kyle. Geez, man. You're drenched in sweat. Do you need help walk into your hooch?

Oh, um, I'm fine, my man. Mike, thanks, said Blake, handing over $7 to Kwanlin to cover the drinks and the tip. Bill, said Major Kyle. I'm good, Mike, Blake said again. I'll be able to make it back to Mahouge. The conversation started up in the club again as Captain Blake left the office's club. Major Carl waited a few moments, finishing his rum and coke before following Blake out of the door. The fact pilot stood just inside the entrance of the club,

watching to make sure that Captain Blake would be okay getting to his living quarters. Major Kyle was wracked with guilt. This was all my fault, Major Carl thought. I should have known that the VC would pull that stun. I should have known that the VC would trick us into attacking a village full of help or civilians. Now he has to live with my mistake. Major Kyle looked down, then entered the office's club. The doors light my fire playing again on the jukebox.

The showers have been cold, but Blake didn't mind. Captain Blake stared at his reflection in one of the mirrors, which lined the shower room. What happened back there? he thought to himself. No, I'm not drunk. I mean, I can handle twice what I drank. Was it an hallucination? It couldn't have been. I mean, I could smell their burning flesh. A Vietnamese girl in her early twenties appeared in the mirror behind him, and Blake spun around, holding his towel around his waist.

"'Hey, hey, hey, hey now,' he said. "'It's a little late in the evening to be cleaning the showers, don't you think?' The Vietnamese girl simply stared at him. She must have been new because Captain Blake didn't recognize her. "'Well, um, come to think of it,' said Blake. "'This is probably the best time to clean the shower stalls. I'm done here, so I'll get out of your way. Sorry.'

Throwing on a clean white t-shirt, Blake stepped around the young lady and made to leave. However, before he opened the door to the shower stalls, he wondered why the girl was dressed as a farming peasant and smelled slightly of fuel. He turned to look back at her, but she was gone. Back at his hooch, Blake put on a pair of shorts and climbed into his rack. He shared his room with his Rio, Captain Guzma, who apparently was still at the chapel praying. Outside he could hear the hustle and bustle of the flight line.

The war was going on 24 hours, and even though it was night, the roar of American F4 Phantoms and F105 Thunder chiefs launching on night missions could still be heard. Blake lay in his rack, looking up at the light bulb on the ceiling, but only seeing Lalkai village being lit up like a torch. Over and over again in his mind. He relived that one fleeting moment when he saw the villagers running right before they died. All of a sudden the loud scream of alarm sirens split the air as the bass rumbled and shook with a qu'b-blum sound of incoming mortar rounds. The sounds of machine-gun fire echoed in the distance, accompanied by the sounds of yelling and running feet. The VC were attacking the base, and by the sounds of it, they were attacking in force. Captain Blake jumped to his feet and dressed only in white boxer shorts and a white t-shirt, ran from his living quarters outside to the nearest.

bunker. As he stepped outside, he was met by a scene of pure and utter devastation. The flight line was demolished by the VC mortars as American fighter planes and C-130 transports were wrecked and ablaze. The hangars and control tower were also on fire, and the aviation fuel depot had exploded. Ordnance detonated, turning the night into a hellish, deep orange, and everywhere Blake looked, hundreds of American servicemen ran and screamed, Their bodies engulfed in flames. Standing outside in just his t-shirt and shorts, Blake was the only person on the base who was not engulfed in flames.

The hundreds, no, thousands of emolated Americans turned to Captain Blake, begging and pleading for him to put the fire out. No, screamed Blake as the burning mass of people drew closer. No, I can't, screamed Blake. The burning Americans reached out to him, pleading for him. help. Their flesh had been burned away, reducing them to little more than shambling skeletons. I'm sorry. I can't. I can't. I'm sorry. Bill. Bill. Wake up. Blake opened his eyes as Guzman shook him awake. Bill, geez. Are you okay? Lord Bill, you were having a bad dream. Blake looked up to see

Guzman standing over his bed. The lights in the hooch had been turned off so that only the illumination from the ramp lights outside shone. Yeah, said Blake, rubbing his eyes. Yeah, I'm okay. Bill, you were yelling in your sleep. You were yelling that you were sorry, said Guzman.

What were you dreaming about? I am, I really can't remember, said Blake, slipping on a pair of grey sweatpants. I'm Yeah, I'm going to take a little walk to clear my head Okay, Bill, said Guzman Hey, I'll be up if you want to talk Yeah, man, said Blake, thanks

Blake stepped out into the cool and quiet nights It was pleasant, the air not being particularly humid And aside from the occasional illumination flare Being fired from the base perimeter One could be fooled into thinking there wasn't a war occurring out there. Captain Blake walked to the nearest concrete bunker and, sitting alone in the darkness, put his hands to his face and cried. Here you go. Blake awoke to see Guzman standing over him. A paper plate piled high with scrowed eggs, bacon, sausage and slices of fruit in his right hand,

a cup of orange juice in his left. Blake looked around, seeing that it was now morning and he was still inside the bunker. I came home looking for you when he did. He didn't. He came home looking for you when you didn't come back last night, said Guzman. Found you sleep in here. You seemed comfortable, so I didn't want to make you. Thank you, said Blake, suddenly realizing how hungry he was.

He gratefully accepted the plate of food, saying, Goose, you're my real, not my mom. You don't have to take care of me. The hell I don't, said Guzman. You have the stick jockey on the phantom.

I'm just the guy in the bag. Hey, if you don't get hold, I don't get home. Blake and Guzman sat in the bunker for a while, talking about everything except Laokai Village. Guzman's family immigrated to America from Mexico, and, like, many new patriotic immigrants, Richard Guzman wanted to prove his pride and love for his new country

by serving in her armed forces. And, well, despite being a devout Catholic, he admitted to despising the white college liberals who had no idea how privileged there were to be living in America, and who were protesting in the streets and burning down their cities at the behest of their communist masters. For his part, Blake spoke about how his father was a fighter pilot in World War II, flying P-38 lightnings in the same squadron as famed American ace Major Richard Ira Bong. His father fought the Japanese in the South Pacific campaigns,

and then again fought the communists as an F-86 Sabre pilot in Korea. Blake followed in his father's footsteps, First flying as an F102 Delta Dagger pilot before transitioning into the F4 Phantom. He wanted to serve his country, just as his father did before him. But this war, this war was different from all the previous ones. This one was just fucked. And America, with all its overwhelming military might, just wasn't prepared to fight in a fucked up war. The next night the VC did hit the runway and Biennheim.

with rockets, but the two craters which the rockets had created were very quickly repaired. That was the only significant event that occurred during Blake's time off, and two days later, Blake and Guzman were back on the mission schedule. Blake looking rested and refreshed from the few days' rest and recuperation that he'd been afforded. The mission that day was a cap, or close air support mission. Several companies of the Army's first infantry and 25th infantry divisions were pushing into the Iron Triagull into a valley which Army Intelligence said that the entire VC-375th Infantry Regiment and the 399th Heavy Weapons Battalion had been staging. The American infantry commanders had requested air support, and several flights of fighters have been allocated.

As the infantry units pushed into the heavily fortified VC Valley, two F4 Phantoms, one piloted by Captain Blake, and one piloted by Captain Rasmussen, will be orbiting overhead. while Major Kyle would provide the FACC support. Several helicopters have been shot down in the valley previously, and American's intelligence surmised that the VC had in place heavy anti-aircraft guns in the hill surrounding the valley. How are you feeling, Foxhound? said Guzman, as the fighter pilots suited up and prepped for their mission in the squadron's ready room.

Blake, looking refreshed after a night of undisturbed and nightmare-free rest, replied, or I feel like I can take on the entire VC army by myself, Goetz. With the pre-flight checks completed, the two mighty US Air Force F4 Phantom fighters thundered down the Bienhow runway, their twin after-burning engines launching the two fighter bombers into the mid-morning sky. All right, all right, all right,

announced Major Kyle from his propeller-driven Cessna-Fack plane. Well, let's see what Mr. Victor is up to today. He circled over the valley as dozens of American UH-1 Huey helicopters dropped hundreds of first infantry and 25th infantry soldiers into landing zones all across the valley. Immediately, the American soldiers began diving into the jungle, searching for the communist insurgents.

The fighter pilots didn't have to wait long for the call for help as less than 30 minutes after they'd arrived on station, an infantry company from the 25th Infantry Division began screaming over the radio for help. Pinned down, pin down, pinned down, yelled the American Infantry Company commander over the radio. We've got VC heavy automatic weapons fire from the hills, west and north of our position. Looks like they have fucking 23mm cannons dug into the side of the mountains.

We need hair support now. I see you, said Major Carl from his FAC aircraft. I'm rolling hot. Major Carl then pushed left on the stick, pulling his little propeller-driven aircraft into a steep dive while firing smoke rockets at the enemy targets. The smoke-marking rockets launched from their pods under the Cessna's wings and impacted into the firing positions of the deadly V.C. 23mm anti-aircraft cannons. As Major Kyle pulled up and away, he yelled,

Target's marked. Come get them, boys. All of a sudden, Major Carl Cessna erupted in a ball of flames as VC. cannon fire reached up from the hillside beside him and struck his plane. The burning little Cessna tumbled into the jungle below, exploding into a ball of flames. Rolling Hut, announced Captain Blake as he armed his ordinance and dove towards the hillside aiming for the VC-23mmoltonon. He leveled out his wings, barely registering Major Carl's FAC aircraft

slamming into the jungle below him. All of a sudden, the images of the... dozens of Vietnamese villages fill Blake's canopy, obstructing his forward sight. The villagers stared at him with malice and hatred as they began to be engulfed in flames. The smell of burning gasoline filled the cockpit. The accurate smoke blinding Blake with tears as he stared transfixed at the burning apparitions before him. Soon the entire cockpit was engulfed in a choking black smoke which smelled of burning gasoline. Pull up! Pull up! Pull up, you old Kuzman. We're too low.

The burning village has vanished and the smell of burning fuel disappeared, replaced by the horrifying view of the earth coming up quickly to meet them. Blake instinctively yanked back on the stick, pulling his F4 Phantom out of its dive before it slammed into the side of the hill. But as Blake pulled the phantom into a tight right bank, the belly of the jet was exposed to the Viet Cong-23-millimeter aircraft guns. The big American fighter jet shuddered and bucked, spewing smoke and flames as it was hit by several high-exposive rounds fired by the VC anti-aircraft cannons below it. Blake's F4 Phantom plunged to the valley, spewing flames and black smoke behind it as it slid into a field of tall reeds.

Captain Rasmussen was flying as Blake's wingman and dived on the VC gun positions, dropping his ordinance on the enemy which had just shot down his partner. The VC-23mm cannons disappeared in a flaming cloud of black and red napalp. Captain Rasmussen pulled up and banked his fighter around to the left, looking down over his shoulder as Captain Blake's burning phantoms skidded into a wide-open field of tall reeds below him. Goose! Guzman, are you okay? Blake unhooked his restraints and popped his canopy open. However, as he attempted to climb out of his seat,

he screamed out in agony. Looking down, he saw that the pants of his green flight suit was stained deep red, bone sticking out of his legs. Taking off his helmet, Blake called to Gooseman again. Goose, I can't move. You have to get out of here before the freaking V.C. getter. Goose, do you hear me? Painfully, Blake shifted his shoulders, craning his head to look behind him.

The Rio station was a wash. with blood, and what was left of Guzman was slumped over. A 23-millimeter round had penetrated under the Rio seat and almost cut him in half. Oh, goose, whispered Blake. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. All of a sudden AK-47 rounds stitched the sides of the down phantom. Blake turned to his left to see about 20 to 30 Viet Cong soldiers emerge from the tree line at the base of the hill 200 meters away, smiling and yelling excitedly. They ran towards the Ruin fighter, cheering and celebrating as they approached.

Raz, you there? said Blake. I'm here, Foxhound, said O' very worried, Captain Rasmussen. What is your status? Got V.C. coming out of the woodwork, said Blake. Need you to drop your payload on my position, Raz. I say again, drop what you have on my paws. What? yelled Captain Rasmussen.

Bill, no. Rasmussen descended and made a quick pass over Blake's downed phantom. Bill, we got Jolly Green and Sandy on the way to pull you out, and the infantry guys. No, Rass. Interrupted Captain Blake. If the VC have another 23mm up in those hills, they'll chew up the search and rescue Jolly Green and Sandy when they come in, and the infantry won't get her in time.

If they do, they'll just get chewed up in another VC ambush. don't make me do this oh god please don't make me do this said rasmussen as he banked his f-floor phantom in tight turns overheads please rass i'm already done for i can't be taken prisoner said captain blake weakly goose is dead my legs are broken rass won't survive the journey to the hanoy hilton they'll torture me please rass bill bill i can't Oh my God, no. Please, Rass. Do it. Do it. Beg Captain Blake. I'm already dead. Do it. Dozens of VC fighters were running across the field,

firing at the downed phantom and up at the phantom that was circling helplessly overheads. The VC were confident that the American overhead wouldn't dare to attack them, not with a downed American pilot in their possession. already a half-dozen VC soldiers were climbing up on the down Phantom's wings in order to get to the Yankee Air Pirates. It was trapped in his cockpit, while many more VC surrounded the fuselage, firing up at Rasmussen's fighter with their AK-47s. Raz, said Captain Blake. God damn it, God damn it, the old Captain Rasmussen. Bill, I'm rolling hard.

Get down, oh my God, Bill, get down. oh my god Bill, get down. The VC soldiers looked up. Looks of shock and horror etched on their faces as black exhaust smoke marked the enemy F4 Phantom's diving attack. Screaming, the VC froze in disbelief as they watched two silver napalm canisters dropped from the phantom's wings

and the fires of hell reached out to embrace them. As the rolling wave of red flames came to engulfed them, Blake saw that his wrecked F4, phantom was now surrounded by about 40 Vietnamese villages he recognized one of them as the girl he'd seen in the shower stalls Blake knew instinctively that these were the villagers that he killed at Lau Kai they were healthy and whole and they were smiling at him an expression of forgiveness in their faces and Blake smile tells from the iron triangle the tunnels of Vin to lie Operation Junction City

March 1967 Republic of South Vietnam Captain Pong Min the company's commander and communist political officer blew his whistle once and at the shrill signal Private Tranguil win

and 75 of his fellow Viet Cong fighters laid down with their backs on the ground of a dry rice paddy and pointed their AK-47s SKS rifles and captured M16 rifles straight up into the air Drongolt as he saw black smoke in the distance of the grey cloudy sky and the ground vibrated from the reverberating roar of powerful jet engines.

The tell-tale sign that the big American Air Force F4, Phantom Fighter Jet, was turning to start an attack run. The mighty fighter jet banked and straightened its wings, diving towards where the Viet Cong's 773rd Revolutionary Infantry Company was laying in ambush, and the air screamed as a hurricane full. of thunderous engines hurled the American warplane towards the earth. Captain Min blew his whistle twice as the jet limbed close and, at the last long, shrilling blow, the entire VC company fired all their weapons straight up into the air as the F4 Phantom roared overhead,

sending thousands of small arms rounds racing skywards. However, as Trann had expected, the American jet flew right through the fuselade of lead as if it weren't even there. Two dark green dots separated the phantom's wings which fell towards a closely grouped community of thatched huts and dwellings which had been built in a large clearing of the jungle. An Apal impacted in the middle of the village and the jungle was immediately engulfed in an explosive conflagration of fire and black smoke, which rose hundreds of feeding the air like a funeral pyre over the doomed South Vietnamese farming community. Tran smiled as he got up from the grounds, brushing the grass and dirt off his back. VC uniform. Four months ago, Tran was living in Kwongtri City, just south of the border with communist

North Vietnam. He and his friends, Tjokan, Namtron and Biendang joined the Vietong insurgents when the four could not find jobs in the city. Communist recruiters from North Vietnam had infiltrated their low-income community one night, looking for young revolutionaries to join the cause. The speaker, an alluringly beautiful young lady with eyes the colour of sparkling emeralds was very convincing. She was intelligent, having been college educated in China and in the Soviet Union, and spoke eloquently about the virtues of the socialist communist revolution, while exposing the evils of capitalism and free world markets run by white imperialists which exploited and enslaved the common people.

Until that night, Dron and his friends had never known how racist and unfair the world. really was and how oppressed and downtrodden he was by capitalists and the Americans. At night, Tron felt a hatred that he never knew he was supposed to have for his fellow countrymen in the South, for being the lapdogs of the American capitalists. Under the approving eyes of that pretty young lady and the armed North Vietnamese gunmen whom she had brought with her, Trin and his friends agreed to join their new heroic comrades in the Communist Revolution and were treated to a dinner of fish, fried rice, and were treated to a dinner of fish, fried rice and soup.

Tran eyed with suspicion those who'd left the meeting without signing to join the revolution. They and their families will be dealt with severely by the heroic VC insurgency later on when the time was right. Four months later,

Tran and his friends were fighting against the Americans and their South Vietnamese government lapdogs far to the south of Guangtree in an area that had become known as the Iron Triangle. Tran and the rest of his communist comrades slowly stood up,

wearily watching the phantom bank away and head back to its base. The American pilot's mission of murder completed. In truth, Tran had little care in the world for the South Vietnamese farmers, which his VC infantry company refused to let leave. The village was named Laokai, and the farmers living in Laokai village were traitors to the Vietnamese people, and to the heroic cause of the communist revolution. All of the villages were forced to gather at the center of the village, and the elderly village leader and his family were separated from the rest and dragged into the middle of the square.

V.C. soldiers formed a circular perimeter around the frightened villagers, while Captain Min addressed the village leader directly. The old village leader at first refused to let the heroic Viet Cong people's Liberation Army hide their weapons, equipment, ammunition and food in the village, arguing that if the Americans or South Vietnamese government soldiers found it, the innocent people of Laokai village

would be labelled as VC sympathizers, and they would be punished. And Captain Pong Min went into a rage and accused the village leader of being a supporter of the capitalist Americans and the puppet government in Saigon. Min snapped his fingers, glaring at the traitorous village leader. At that, several Viet Cong soldiers subdued the village leader's four daughters,

ripping away their clothing and abusing them as the old man was forced to watch. Tran did not partake in the violating of the young women, and he'd had his fun last time his company visited a South Vietnamese farming village. But he did cheer as his comrades had their pleasure with the crying girls, and applauded with the rest of the company as his best friend, Private Tiao Khan, finally lost his virginity. The village leader's eldest daughter, abused nearly to death,

finally had her suffering ended when the heroic VC liberators beheaded her. She was not as pretty as the young lady who spoke to them in Kwongtree, so Tran didn't mind as her head. had rolled onto the dirt. When the VC then threatened to gun down the village leader's grandchildren, the grieving old village leader had no choice but to give in to the communist's demands, finally submitting to the VC's mostly peaceful persuasions. And the VC were mostly peaceful, merciful, merciful even,

as only one person of the dozens of traitors Laokai villages was actually killed. And such was the rationality of the heroic VC-773 Revolutionary Infantry Company, as they courageously fought against the evils of capitalism. Unlike their enemies, everyone who fought for the communist cause was considered mostly peaceful, no matter what they did, to further their agenda. However, no sooner had the Vietcon completed hiding their stores of heavy weapons and ammunition inside the village, then the radio came alive, warning the communist heroes that an American air attack was imminent.

The villagers panicked and attempted to flee, but the V.C. ordered them to stay. put at gunpoint, the communist political officer promising that the VC would do their duty and protect the village from the American air attack. Minutes later, the villagers and the village disappeared in a rolling ocean of thirsty, unquenchable fire. Tran was disappointed at the loss of his company's supply of rice, weapons and high-explosive ordnance. Fortunately, the company had a camera crew temporarily attached with them who followed the units, filming the heroic Viet Cong's more patriotic actions to use as propaganda against the hated Americans. The film crew was able to capture the American air attack against the helpless village,

bombing them before the heroic VC forces could help the innocent villagers escape. The communists would use the footage of the US air attack as evidence of America's wanton and arbitrary attacks against helpless civilians, using the propaganda to inspire more of his countrymen to join the revolution. Not only that, the communists would release the story to communist reporters worldwide, who had then passed it on to the millions of liberal college-age communist supporters in the United States, fueling their anger against their own country. As General Vaux-Windjup, North Vietnam's military leader once said, Communist victory in Vietnam would be won in the streets of America.

Dron and his comrades congratulated themselves, panning each other on the back for their heroic victory over the capitalists. Even as the innocent farming village continued to burn, and the weapons, ammunition and ordnors which they'd hidden in the village had exploded. They cared little for their material losses, as more rice, weapons and ammunition would be brought down the Ho Chi Minh Trail from North Vietnam through Laos and Cambodia and into the Iron Triangle. The heroic 773rd Revolutionary Company will be resupplied again within the next few days. Suddenly, Captain Min's whistle pierced the air,

the radio operator pointing in the sky to the south. Trangolt as he saw black smoke in the sky descending from the grey clouds. The American F4 Phantom was returning. The company began to run back into the jungle, melting away into a sea of trees and green leaves. However, the fighter was loaded with napalm, and the jungle provided very little protection against flaming, jelly gasoline, which not only burned, but superheated the air in your lungs. But the 773rd didn't need to rely on the dubious protection of the jungle, canopy. The soldiers opened several trap doors, camouflaged by dirt and thick branches,

pulling them up from the jungle floor to reveal narrow entrances down into a massive tunnel complex. Tran jumped into one of the entrances, hunching down while yelling and pushing his comrades ahead of him, forwards down into the dark, claustrophobic tunnel as more of his comrades jumped him behind him. The narrow tunnel went straight down for about ten feet, the dirt size barely wide enough to allow the vehicle to pass through without scraping their shoulders against the walls. The tunnel then ended at a T-junction, which abruptly turned 90 degrees right and left. Each V-C alternately ran down a different direction of the T-junction, right-left, right, left. The comrade in front of Tran took the left turn at the junction, and Tran turned to the right. Still hunched over while he ran,

the tunnel Tran found himself and continued for about 30 meters, leading to the deeper into the ground before abruptly turning left into another slightly wider tunnel. The echoes of his comrades running and yelling bounced off the walls as they scrambled down the separate tunnels which paralleled the tunnel Tran was in. A few lit torches mounted on the dirt walls provided a dim, flickering light the deep of the VC descended into the complex. Every ten feet a shallow alcove was carved into the side of the walls which could provide emergency cover to a VC soldier. But the VC ignored these and continued to run down the tunnel, which ended at another T-junction.

In the middle of the junction, a four-foot-square hole dug onto the floor led down to a lower level of the tunnels. The VC ignored the side tunnels and jumped into the hole, which dropped six feet into a wider tunnel. Tran scrambled to the opening and jumped down, holding his AK-47 close to his body. He nearly landed on top of his comrade, who jumped down just before him,

and who tripped as he tried to get up. Tron grabbed him and pulled him to his feet, pushing him forwards as he ran just as his comrade behind him jumped down the hole. The VC continued running, more of their comrades jumping down holes from the other tunnels above them. The tunnels in this lower level were wider than the ones above and could allow two of the VC to stand side by side. As above, every ten feet, shallow alcoes were dug into the walls. This time several of Tran's comrades jumped into the alcoes, crouching down as lowly. as they could. Triang continued running, his back beginning to ache from crouching down and running through these dank, dusty tunnels, while following his comrades as they turned down yet another tunnel.

Captain Min's whistle reverberated around the tunnels and the yelling and commotion quieted down as Min yelled, Take a cover, find cover, get down where you are. Tryan was next to an empty alcove and he jumped in. His friend Bien was behind him and had the same my dear. Bienne jammed himself into the alcove as well, though there was barely enough room for one person. Those Visi who could not reach one of the alcoes simply got face down, prone on the ground. Their rifles cradled underneath them. Unseen above them, the vengeful American fighter dived towards the jungle. Two napalm canisters leapt from the wings of the F4 phantom,

dropping towards the jungle which the VC had disappeared into just minutes earlier. The napal exploded directly on target over the entrances to the VC tunnels, drowning the jungle foliage on a sea of thirsty fires and black smoke. The wisdom of the VC cutting the tunnels on a 90-degree angle became evident as the deadly effects of the concussive force of exploding gas and heat was stunted and greatly lessened by the walls of the tunnels. The impact of the jet's bombing strike had nearly been nullified by the simple, yet effective construction of the tunnel system dug deep into the earth.

Nearly nullified, but not totally. The tunnel shook slightly as the napalm impacted. It was a terrible rumbling noise that echoed inside the tunnels, and choking clouds of dust raised in the already stifling air as dirt and sand fell from the ceiling. Tran squeezed his eye shut, pulling his black uniform shirt over his nose and mouth. The air was sucked out of the tunnel, feeding the angry 5,000-degree firestorm above them.

A billowing hot wind blew through the tunnel corridors and Trane struggled to breathe. The air tasted like gasoline in his mouth and his comrade Bien, who had crammed himself into the old cove with him, was crying. Tram began coughing, his lungs protesting against the acrid air that he was breathing. He was going to die. They were all going to die of suffocation.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity of drowning in superheated air, the rumbling noise of roaring waves above ended, and Trank could breathe again. The tunnels fell into a deathly silence for several moments, as if it had become a tomb, then suddenly erupted with the echoes and cheers and yells from men who would escape death yet again. It took Captain Men a few minutes to restore order to his jubilant revolutionaries, who had just survived a direct hit by a napalm strike. In the darkness of the tunnels,

the few torches which were lit had been extinguished, and it was impossible for them to take an accurate roll call of the unit. Captain Min led the company through the confusing maze of hallways and corridors, leading the VC deeper into the tunnel complex for almost an hour until they arrived at a sturdy wooden ladder, leading up through another hole in the ceiling, which led to the upper level of the complex. A dim light shone down from the opening.

Captain Min climbed up the ladder first, emerging through the opening into another underground passageway. He was met by a group of three other V.C. who greeted him at the top of the ladder that opened to a relatively wide tunnel. "'Come round to Min, sir,' said one of the VC, hugging Captain Min. "'We saw the American plane returning. I was afraid that you received our warning too late.' "'Thank you, Trun.

said Min, your warning was well received. We escaped just in time. One by one the VC fighters emerged from the low levels of the tunnel, but it was still too dark and cramped to get an accurate accountability of the units. The VC named Tun, read Captain Ming down the tunnel which rose gradually as if it had been carved from the side of a hill, as Tran could sense they were climbing higher in elevation. Carved into the dirt to the left and right of them were several small rooms, one which looked to have been set up as a medical aid station. In one small room was a radio set, whose camouflaged antennae poked up through the dirt in the ground and stuck up in the air above them.

Oil lamps lit the room illuminating maps of the Iron Triangle that festooned the walls and showed VC positions, enemy positions, as well as the location of villages nearby. Captain Min entered the room and spoke with Trun, who had turned out to be the leader of the special VC scout an observation team which constantly kept lookout for South Vietnamese government and American troop movements. Meanwhile, Tran and Bien had found their other friend, Private Nan, who had become separated from them down another passageway earlier.

Have you seen Teo? said Tran. No, said Nan. He was behind me at the first junction. I thought Comrade Teo was with you. Well, said Bien. He's around here somewhere. Shit, I can't see my hand in front of my face in these tunnels. Be silent, said a whispered but stern voice in the darkness. Trang could tell it was the voice of their strict squad leader,

Sergeant Hawaii Luong. Sergeant Luong was a seasoned combat veteran who had been recruited two years ago from a farming village that had been burned down by government soldiers. You damn boys never know when to shut up. Captain Men and Combrantune are discussing strategy

and need silence. Come, quickly. announced Min as he emerged from the small radio room. Follow me, comrades, hurry. Two and two of his scouts led the unit down another tunnel, which continued to incline upwards that ended at a trap door. Cautiously pushing up on it, the VC scouts peered around,

making sure that the area was clear. Satisfied that they could exit the tunnel in safety, they threw upon the trap door, allowing the 773 VC Infantry Company to finally emerge from the dark tunnels and out into the jungle. Tron was blinded momentarily by the sun, which was just now breaking through the grey clouds, and blinked his eyes rapidly in order to get adjusted to the lights. As he suspected, they had indeed emerged near the top of a hill, surrounded by thick jungle canopy.

The hill was part of a curving ridge line which looked down into a ravine. In the ravine, a relatively wide dirt trail snaked in between the hill and a dry rice paddy on the others inside. Captain Tran unfolded his area map and held a quick meeting to confer with his lieutenants We're about 800 meters from where we entered the tunnels at here He said pointing to his map This is Laokai village here 100 meters from the entrance to the tunnels This road

Min said pointing to the trail below them is right here on the map We are here Min pointed to the symbol on the map representing the ridge line his unit was positioned on Comrade Tune just reported to me that he saw several government helicopters landing to the east of us about two kilometers away. No doubt they are government puppet troops going to investigate the handiwork of the American air attack earlier. They will have to pass this way on the road below us. Position your men quickly and order them not to fire until I give the word. Understand.

Min's four lieutenants acknowledged their orders, then quickly set about placing their men in optimal positions to fire down at the dirt road. Lieutenant Cantien, Trans-Platoon leader, spoke briefly with Sergeant Luong, and Luong nodded before turning to his squad. Sergeant Luong preferred to keep the four city boys together, and he positioned Private Tran next to his platoon's machine gun to provide supporting fires with his AK-47. Private Bien was to the other side of the machine gun, while Private Nan was the loader who would feed the rounds into the machine gun. "'Where is the other city boy?' snapped Sergeant Luong. "'Where is Private Teo?' "'He separated from us earlier,' said Tran.

"'We haven't located him yet.' "'No matter,' said Luong. "'We'll find him later. "'The government troops will be here soon. "'Private Cow, get your ass over here and man this machine gun.' "'Another of Tran's comrades, a skinny new recruit named Cow, "'scambled over to take the machine gun. No sooner had they settled in

than the VC company could hear laughing and joking coming around the bend of the dirt road below. Tran watched the South Vietnamese army soldiers, Arvin, wearing US-made military uniforms, well-made US military combat boots, and armed with US-made weapons and equipment, rounded the bend on the dirt road below them. Trang counted at least a hundred of the Arvin puppet government soldiers,

and the resentment raised within him. His one black uniform set was old and wearing thin and streaked white from the salt of his sweat. His shoes consisted of nothing more than sandals called Ho Chi Minh sandals, made from the treads of old rubber tyres and his neckerchief's stank of sweat and dirt. Compared to his VC comrades,

the government soldiers were well equipped and seemed well fed and well rested. The Arvin soldiers were walking into, two columns on either side of the road, but seemed to be complacent, talking and joking loudly amongst themselves, as if they were taking a leisurely stroll instead of fighting a war. Perhaps they believed that the American airstrike at Laokai Village had wiped out the VC, and they were simply going there to collect the bodies. That did not matter to Trana, as he leveled his rifle at a young government soldier carrying a radio. As the head of the Arvin column

turned the bends, Captain Min blew his whistle and the shrill sound echoed. across the hill, signaling the slaughter to begin. Tran eagerly fired his AK-47, and the soldier he was aiming at threw up his hands and fell to the ground in a cloud of pink smoke. Tran fired again at the dead soldier, destroying the radio on his back. Cowan opened fire with a machine gun, stitching the South Vietnamese officer who was next to the radio man. His body jerked around as if he was being stung by Hornets before he too fell to the ground. The sounds of automatic weapons fire filled the air with a symphony of whistling death as government soldiers caught in the kill zone screamed and died. With the

rear end of the column losing sight of the front end of the column because of the bend in the road, the South Vietnamese unit was cut in half and could not bring their numerical superiority to bear on the VC firing down on them from the hillside. An Arvin M-60 machine gunner bravely began firing blindly up the hill towards the VC machine gun, which was slaughtering them, only to be cut down himself, his arms flying wide as his chest exploded from AK-47 rounds and spraying his bullets into the soldiers next to him. The South Vietnamese soldiers were all but leaderless and exposed in an open kill zone, getting slaughtered by the dozens. Those who could drop their weapons and attempt to flee back the way they come, or climb up the opposite embankment to try and take cover behind

the rice paddy embankments. A few of the braver Arvin sergeants attempted to rally their soldiers and charge up the hill, which the VC were occupying, only to be mercilessly cut down by automatic weapons fire. By now the VC were firing RPGs that isolated pockets of the government soldiers, who'd taken cover in the rice paddy, and screams from dozens of wounded and dying soldiers filled the air. The return fire from the Arvin forces had faded away to nothingness. quickly the old lieutenant tien captain min wants us to go down and retrieve everything you can from the puppet soldiers move quickly before their helicopters arrive tran stood up from where he'd been fighting and prepared to step off down the hill when he heard his friend private bien scream nom

trun turned and looked towards where nom had been loading the machine gunn private cow the gunner was painfully clutching at his ruined right arm the muscle and tissue torn away from where the South Vietnamese M-60 machine gunner had returned fire before he'd been killed. Beside private cow, private Nam was slumped backwards, the top of his head blown away in a surprised look in his dead eyes. Anger filled Tron's heart. He and Nam had been friends since grade school. We need a medic here, sir, yelled bien. Private car is hurt. I will send him, yelled Lieutenant Tien. Just get down the hill. What if they're wounded? yelled Tram.

There are no wounded, responded the lieutenant. Now go. Tron ran eagerly down the hill to where the ambush had taken place, ignoring his comrades as they began looting weapons, ammunition, equipment and packs from the dead government soldiers who littered the ground. He came upon an Arvin soldier sitting on the ground by the side of the road, rocking back and forth, cradling a dead soldier in his arms. Tran ran up behind the government soldier and looked down.

The soldier was crying and muttering. Oh, little brother, little brother, I am so sorry. I promised Mother that I would keep you safe. I'm so sorry. Tran stepped around and looked at the dead soldier. He looked like the soldier who was crying over him, only much younger. Tron cocked his AK-47, and as the crying soldier looked up at him, Tron blew his head off.

Tron managed to find a wounded Arvin medic behind a shallow mound in the rice paddy that was treating two other soldiers suffering from horrible fragmentation wounds they'd suffered from the blast of a VCRPG. Without saying a word, Tran raised his AK-47 and gunned them all to pieces with automatic weapons fire. He found another government soldier crawling away, both his legs shattered. The terrified soldier rolled over, pleading with Tran for mercy. but his pleas fell on death ears as Tran shot him in the groin and left the shaking puppet soldier to painfully bleed to death. As Tran walked back up the road, littered with the bodies of his hated enemy, he came across the ruined body of the Arvin radio man he'd killed earlier

and smiled in satisfaction as he saw the bullet-ridden radio on his back. Tran looked down at his own makeshift sandals and removed one of them, placing his dirty foot next to one of the soldier's combat boots. Tran smiled, as the boot was his size, and he set about stripping the dead soldier of his footwear. In minutes, however, Sergeant Luong began yelling at his squad to finish what they were looting and get back up the hill. The VC scout named Toon was on the radio, listening in on the government military frequency, and gave the alert that helicopters were approaching. The VC began scrambling back up the hill, each soldier carrying as many spoils as he could,

while Tran follows, happy with just his new pair of jungle boots. Already the distant sound of the air being beaten with the rhythmic wop-wop-wop-sound of helicopter blades could be heard as two American UH1 Huey gunships raced to the site where the South Vietnamese soldiers have been slaughtered. The gunships each fired two full pods of air to ground rockets at the VC positions, then circled around again to strafe the entire helot with machine-gun fire and 40mm-millimeter high-exposive grenades launched from the nose of the helicopters. As soon as the UH-1 gunships pulled away,

their ordnance expended. Two South Vietnamese Air Force A1D Sky Raiders, huge propeller-driven attack fighters, dived out of the sky, each dropping two white phosphorus bombs on the enemy positions, and the hillside vanished in a billowing cloud of burning white phosphorus. By the time the Americans and South Vietnamese were done with their air attack, The entire face of that hill was completely devoid of jungle cover, the entrances to the tunnels completely exposed to the world.

Soon either the Americans or South Vietnamese infantry soldiers would discover the tunnels and cave them in with explosives. But it would matter very little to the VC. The 773 VC Infantry Company had already successfully escaped, and there were thousands more VC tunnel systems all across the Iron Triangle. Captain Min led the 7703rd. 173rd down the tunnel back the way they come earlier from Laokai village. The going was slower this time as, aside from Private Cowell, he also had five other wounded fighters.

It was near dark when they finally arrived at the entrance to the tunnel, which led to Laokai Village. Once there, the VC found the answer to the mystery of where their missing fighters had gone. Apparently, not everyone escaped the napalm attack earlier from the American F4 Phantom. Eight VC bodies lay at the second bend, in the upper level of the tunnel, just before the opening which dropped into the lower levels. They were not fast enough to get to the lower level, and were caught in the blast when the napalm eruptus. The bodies were not burned, however, the VC fighters having died of asphyxiation when the exploding, jelly, gasoline sucked all of the air from their lungs.

Try and look down at the body of his friend, Teo, which had turned white as a sheet. He died on the day he lost his virginity, said Bien, shaking. his head sadly. Captain Min chose to keep the 773rd in the tunnel that night, putting guards on the entrances and approaches in the unlikely event that the Americans or the South Vietnamese decided to come prowling around at night. Tune had the radio tuned into the government channels, and Radio Saigon was alive with the news that over 40 government soldiers were killed, and many more were wounded in a deadly VC ambush in the Iron Triangle. But a reprisal attack by the US and south of Vietnamese aircraft, had killed an estimated 80 VC fighters. Captain Min's men

cheered at the high numbers of casualties that they'd inflicted upon the enemy, and laughed at the pathetic attempt by the Saigon government of using propaganda to mask their defeat. The capitalist propagandists were amateurs compared to the propaganda machine of the communists. Captain Min allowed a few torches to be lit inside the tunnels, and despite losing a total of nine fighters killed that day, the heroic fighters of the 773rd were in a jubilant mood. In the true communist fashion of community sharing, the spoils taken from the enemy were divided and handed out to those who were in need. Those with damaged weapons received a new captured M16 or M79 grenade launching. Because their food supplies were destroyed earlier, the captured enemy rations were

combined into one commune meal and everyone got an equal portion of the food, with the senior sergeants and officers naturally getting a far larger part of the equal portions. The same was done with the catchet enemy equipment and clothing, as those were in need the most received what they needed from the communal pile. Again the senior sergeants and the officers, who were in the greatest need because of their higher ranking, had the pick of the litter, quickly grabbing up wet weather gear, towels, soaps, rocksacks, shaving equipment and extra uniforms. What was left was fairly and equally divided amongst the same. the rest of the soldiers, which, admittedly, wasn't much.

Tran was told to hand over his new boots to Lieutenant Tien, whose shoes were showing signs of wear. Tran trying to hide his reluctance, handed them over to Sergeant Luong, who then walked over to present the prize to the platoon leader. Sergeant Luong told Lieutenant Tien that he was the one that recovered the boots as a gift for his courageous platoon leader. Tran tried to hide his anger at Sergeant Luong when he returned to the portion of the tunnel where his squad was squatting around a small fire.

Instead, Tran says, Comrade Luong, now that you have taken my boots, I have no sandals to wear. Sergeant Luong scooped a spoonful of the rich, captured American field rations from his bowl and into his mouth. Dran's stomach growled. His equal portion of the captured food was less than the senior sergeants, but then again,

required more food than the lower class, since everything must be shared equally. Luong pointed his spoon at Tran. And where are the sandals that were provided to you, Private Tran? I left them on the road after I took the enemy soldiers' boots, said Tran. So, out of your own greed for capitalist goods, you left your sandals out there on the battlefield. Sandals that were handcrafted by little supporters of the revolution. Is that correct, Private Tran? said Luong, opening up a pound cake from the rations they captured.

Yes, said Tran bitterly. I mean, no, comrade Luong. Ah, you city boys are such prissy little things, laughed the sergeant. He was wearing a pair of olive green pants which he'd recovered from the enemy and wore a captured web belt around his waist with two canteens attached, and on his feet was a new pair of green jungle boots, which he'd acquired when the captured enemy was fairly and equally handed, out. If you want another pair of sandals, said Sergeant Le Wong, I suggest that you ask your friends

private cow or private norm. They won't be needing theirs. Later on, Private Tran was on guard duty near the entrance to the tunnel, looking out into the darkness of the jungle beyond. The tunnel camouflage had been burned away earlier by the napal strike, so the entrances were left exposed. He had acquired a pair of used Ho Chi Minh sandals from his comrades who would, not be needing them anymore.

Though his unit had won great propaganda and military victories that day, Tran felt a tinge of bitterness and resentment. Tron had lost two close friends today, and he was still thirsty and hungry. His friend, Private Bien, sat next to him in the darkened tunnel to keep in company. Bien reached into his pockets

and poured out two sticks of chewing gum, which he took from one of the enemy ration kits. Here you go, Tran, said Bien. A little dessert after dinner. Thank you, Bien, said Tran, taking one of the sticks and popping it into his mouth. Comrade Sergeant Luong can be an asshole sometimes, said Bien, rolling the chewing gum stick before putting it in his mouth. But he is a fearless fighter. Are you okay, Tron? I'm fine, like Tron, not really knowing why he was so angry.

Okay, said Bien. It's just that you aren't scheduled to be on guard duty for another two hours. you should get some sleep. I'm not sleepy, said Tran bitterly. I'll be fine for tomorrow's mission. Are you angry at Comrade Sgtin Luan? Askedien. Not only did he take your new boots.

He took credit for recovering them, and he gave your boots to the lieutenant. Yes, admitted Tron. No, I don't know. This, all of this is the Americans' fault. It's all the capitalist's fault. Teoanam would be alive if it weren't for the Americans. This war. How people suffering. It's all their fault.

Yes, I grieve for Teoanam. They were my friends too, remember, said Bien. But we must be patient and not do anything rash or foolish. Victory will come eventually. Tron said nothing as he leaned his head back against the dirt wall of the tunnel, as he continued to stare blankly out into the unseen jungle. These past few months It seemed that Tran only felt three emotions Fear and lust

But mostly hate Any thoughts of such things As compassion and mercy Of long since faded from him All that mattered to him Was his anger Anger which fuelled his revolutionary drive And he was eager for the morning to come

And the opportunity to kill more of the enemy In another portion of the tunnels Inside a room lined with heavy wooden planks Captain Min and his lieutenant hovered around the radio. A map rolled out on a makeshift wooden table. Min held the radio telephone up to his ear, speaking to his regimental commander.

Yes, sir, yes, I understand. Vintoulai. Yes, sir, thank you. Captain Min gave the radio telephone back to tune, and smiled at his lieutenants. Gentlemen, the colonel is pleased with our work today, and word of our successful ambush has even reached Harnoy. Good work, gentlemen.

The assembled lieutenant smiled, patting each other on the back. Still, we suffered some losses today, as the regiment as a whole, and we must make good our losses. The colonel wants the regiment at full strength for a big offensive that is supposed to happen next year during the Tet New Year. For that, we will need more recruits. Men pointed to the map. There is our next objective, gentlemen. Vintu Lai Village. Before the sun rose, Tran volunteered to lead a four-man scouting team to the village of Vintoulai, ahead of the VC main force.

Bien also volunteered to go, but Sergeant Luong refused his request, saying that he didn't trust the safety of the unit to two loud-mouthed city boys. Tran led the four other Visi scouts, one soldier from each platoon, out into the jungle, the early morning sky just barely turning a deep purple. The five scouts had removed their traditional black Visi. uniforms and adorned the clothing of local civilian farmers. They stealthily crept through the foliage, stopping often to ensure that they hadn't been detected. Soon they reached the remains of Laukai village, small fire still burning on the skeletal remains of the thatched dwellings from the previous day's Nepal attack. Tron decided to take a quick look into the demolished village to see if there was anything salvageable

that the unit could recover. The accurate smell of burning fuel still lingered in the air. and Tran shuddered at the smoke. As they warily crept back to the village square, the first thing that Tron noticed was that the char bodies of the villages were missing. There were fresh wagon and hoof tracks in the dirt, indicating that someone had very recently recovered the bodies and made away with them. The tracks led away from the village onto a hard, dirt-packed road.

A quick look around the village revealed that all of the rice had been burned and was useless, and the mortars, ordinance and mines which is the... they'd hidden there the day before had been detonated. There was nothing of value left. Soon the scouting team melted back into the jungle. Vintu Lai was three kilometers away and the VC scouts were behind schedule. They stayed inside the tree line and paralleled the hard dirt-pack road which the wagon tracks had gone on. They stopped once they heard a propeller driven scout aircraft circling somewhere in the dark sky overhead. When the sound of the engine faded into the distance.

Try and motion them to move again, but halted a few minutes later when artillery began falling into a hillside about a kilometer from where they'd hunkered down. Once the artillery lifted, Tran said, Quickly, we must make up for lost time. I have a feeling that the Americans are up to something today. Trans feelings were confirmed an hour later

when they saw 12 American U.H1 Huey utility helicopters descending into a valley, a few kilometers east of Vintu Lai Village. It was eight o'clock in the morning, and the sky had turned a pale blue as the sun rose over the horizon when Tran's scout team reached the peritre of the target village. Ahead of them they saw several civilian villages guiding three large wooden carts down the road being pulled by tired-looking water buffaloes. Piled into each of the wooden carts were dead bodies wrapped in a thin clock.

Suddenly filled with rage, Tran stood up from where he'd been hiding in the tree line and stormed towards the road. His comrades tried to stop him, but they were too late. Tran produced his AK-47 and pointed at the nine villagers, yelling, Hey, hey, what are you doing? Where are you going with those bodies? A middle-aged villager with lean muscles regarded the young man armed with the VC weapon, who suddenly appeared out of the jungle. He stopped the procession of wagons and said, We are taking these honored dead to bury on hallow ground at Vin Tulae.

Where did these bodies come from? demanded Tron, waving his AK-47 at him. They are the villagers who were slain in Laokai village, replied the middle-aged villager. We came from Vintu Lai village and recovered them last night to give them a proper burial today. Tron sneered at this villain, who's likely just another puppet of the capitalist Americans. Uncover the bodies, take off those burial cloths and dump the bodies in the roads. The villagers gasped. Sir?

stab at the middle-aged religion. These good people were mercilessly killed yesterday. They were murdered. Their bodies must be laid to rest in hallow ground, or their souls will be restless. We cannot abide by what you say. The superstitions of those living in these secluded villages were a constant irritant to Tram.

Their adherence to religious myths and old wives' tales only proved to Tron the intellectual superiority of communism, which relied solely on logic and science and propaganda. The communist mind was not enslaved to ancient myths and superstitions. Tron caught the bolt of his AK-47. I am not interested in your superstitions, old man. He yelled. Now dump those bodies in the middle of the road.

Everyone must see the consequences of supporting the American imperialists. Tron nodded towards the trees, and the four other VC scouts emerged, all pointing their weapons at the villagers. Please, said the middle-aged villager. You don't know what you're doing. Their spirits are angry. If you... The village's chest exploded and he fell dead to the ground.

Trant had no patience for the unenlightened stupidity of these backwards villages. A teenage girl screamed and ran to the body of her dead father, wailing uncontrollably. The girl was pretty, and Tram briefly considered taking her into the jungle and having his way with her. But he was running out of time, and the company would be arriving shortly. He walked over and violently grabbed the girl by her hair, waving his AK-47 threateningly at the rest of the villages, and he yelled, Do you see? Do you see what happens to those who support the imperialists? Now either dump those bodies in the road or join them.

Some of the VC scouts looked on with expressions of shock at Transmosely peaceful brutality, but they said nothing as they kept their weapons pointed at the villages. Left with no alternatives, the grieving villages began to slowly remove the bodies from the back of the carts, arranging them reverently on the side of the road and saying prayers over them. This only served to further infuriate Tran, and he fired his AK-47 over their heads, warning them that they had 20 seconds to dump all of the bodies on the road. The villagers complied, though they were weeping loudly. Once their grim task was completed,

Tran and the other VC scouts climbed aboard the now empty wooden carts and ordered the civilians to begin walking back towards Vintoulai village. behind them the charred remains of forty bodies were unceremoniously piled on the road the courage and sacrifices of the people of vintuli village will be written in the annals of our glorious commune's revolution the old captain min loudly at the villages of vintulli who were forced to gather in the village square they sat on the red clay earth surrounded by vc riflemen min motioned to a line of twenty young men all inhabitants of vintuli standing nervously beside him. They'd been lined up from eldest to youngest. These young men, aged 13 to 30, will do their

patriotic duty to throw off the yoke of imperialist oppression and unify our nation under the progressive banner of the Communist Party. We did not ask for volunteers because it is the duty of all patriotic military-age freedom fighters to defeat the Americans. Several older women were sobbing, crying that their sons were being taken away. Captain Min smiled. Yes, yes, yes, brave women of Vintulae. Cry your tears of joy and happiness that soon your sons will be taking up arms to fight against the imperialists.

Every tear that you cry is a signal that you wholeheartedly support the glorious revolution. Tran frowned as the wailing and crying of the women grew louder. Their pathetic noise is irritating him. It's right that Captain Min did not give them a choice. Either you supported the glorious communist revolution or you were an enemy.

There was no in-between. Try and admire Captain Min for his patience with these villages. Instead of making an example of the crying women, Captain Min simply raised his voice. Do not worry, though, continued Min, because before your sons joined the heroic forces of the Revolution, you will all have the opportunity to do your part to fight the Americans. Over the next few days, you will be assisting my men in digging tunnels under the graveyard of Vintula. Min's announcement was met with whales of disbelief and despair as the villagers protested bitterly,

and men held up his hands to placate them. Comrades! Comrades! The Americans and their lap dogs in Saigon do not disturb cemeteries or graveyards. We will use their weaknesses against them by hiding our supplies and staging our ambushes from the tunnels we will dig under the graveyard of Vintula. Despite being surrounded by Arm V.C., the villagers continue. to protest the digging of tunnels under the graveyard. Unphased, Min pulled his pistol from its holster and fired into the head of the 30-year-old man, the eldest in the lineup of young men.

The man's head exploded and he fell in a heap on the dirt. The villagers gasped, and an elderly woman, apparently the man's mother, collapsed. Min walked to the second eldest man, put in the gun to his head. Who is this man's mother? which of you heartless women are so loyal to the public government that you are willing to sacrifice your son's life? Why do you oppose the revolution? Why do you love the Americans of your own people?

The villages were allowed to continue their routine of plowing their fields and planting rice and tea leaves and coffee beans. VC soldiers, disguised as farmers, also worked beside them, but were actually there to keep any of the villages from running off. Oftentimes helicopters and jets could be seen over the... ahead, and occasionally American and Arvin patrols could be spied in the distant hills, but Vintuli was left unmolested.

The villagers were actually encouraged by Captain Min to increase their work as the fruits of their labour would eventually be turned over to the Communists, come time for the harvest in late spring and early fall. In the evening, however, the villagers began the task of digging the VC tunnel complex underneath the Vintu Lai graveyard, though with great reluctance and trepidation. The village women who were not engaged in the digging had been required to cook for the VC and mend and wash their uniforms. They were also forced to service the VC soldiers in other ways.

Captain Min didn't keep his entire 773rd VC company at Vintuil. Usually he would station a squad or two there to keep an eye on the villages during the day while the rest of the company remained in tunnels which had previously been dug into the jungle about half a kilometre away from the village. Enemy air activity had increased over the past two days, so above-ground movement was kept to a minimum. Although Captain Min did have his men dig shallow fighting positions around the tunnel entrances, as well as pits which could hold mortars. At night the entire company would exit the tunnels and descend on Vintu Lai,

with pickax and shovel to continue digging. This cycle continued for three days, and in the ensuing time, the regimental commander had sent two captured R-Vin-81-millimeter mortars to the company, along with crews to man the weapons and an experienced forward observer. Captain Min immediately put these new soldiers to work at night, digging the tunnels under Vintu Lai, as he was days behind schedule. On the fourth day of construction, Tran was put in charge of a squad to watch over the villages, as they continued their daily activities as if nothing untoward was happening in their innocent, peaceful village.

His friend Bienn was in charge of the other squad. It was still early in the morning when the two VC squads reached the village, Trand told Bien to take charge of both squads for a little while, as he was going back down the road to scout the area where the bodies of the burnt villages had been dumped. He found it odd that the part of dead bodies did not attract the attention of the enemy, which in turn would have sent patrols to investigate, which would then have led to another slaughter of enemy soldiers via a VC ambush. At first, Bien started to protest, warning Tran that he would be in trouble if he were to get caught. But Tran was already on his way, pushing through the enemy. underbrush and disappearing into the jungle.

Minutes later, the air began to beat, and the sound of thumping echoed across the sky as twelve American UH1 Hueys appeared over the horizon. Dran returned from his personal scouting mission to Vintoulai, waving his AK-47 and yelling at a group of villagers who seems they have been waiting for his return. Where are the bodies? Where did you superstitious people take the bodies? The village leader, an elderly man with a thin white bill, appeared, looked at the unhinged V.C. soldier in bewilderment.

We do not know what you are talking about. What bodies are you... Liar! Y'ltran, slapping the elderly man and knocking him to the ground. You know what bodies I'm talking about. You buried them, didn't you? You buried the bodies. Immediately, a look of terror appeared on the elderly man's face as he finally comprehended which bodies the V.C. soldier was talking about. The other villagers standing around him moaned, loudly and began to recite prayers. No, no, we didn't. He wouldn't allow us to bury the bodies.

You should have. Oh, gods, you should have. It was then that Tran realized that he was alone. All of his comrades were missing. Where is Bien? He demanded, pointing his rifle threateningly. Where are the others? That's what we came to tell you, said the old man,

getting up off the ground, his hands held out. before him. Your friends received a radio transmission from your commander to return to your base. The Americans! The Americans are coming. Shit, the old Tran, remembering the large fleet of American helicopters he'd seen flying overhead earlier. Tran turned and raced down the path, which would lead back to the 773rd fighting positions. He was halfway to where his unit was located when he heard the first shot from a VC sniper rifle in the distance, followed by the sound of VC machine gun and AK-47 weapons fire. Tran's unit had ambushed the Americans, and he was missing all of the killing.

Cursing himself, Tran picked up the pace, jumping over fallen trees and ignoring the cuts and scrapes from thorny vines in his eagerness to partake in the slaughter of the Americans. Finally arriving at the edge of a wide plain of tall reeds and grass, Trang got into a prone fighting position behind it burr, trying to make out where the enemy was and where his friends were. As it turned out, he found himself closer to the Americans than he was to his own lines. The Americans were trapped out in the open, and Trunk could hear several of them yelling out in pain and calling for a medic. Trance saw a big American soldier crouching next to an American M-60 machine gun, and apparently yelling angrily at someone behind him.

Astonishingly, the big American pointed behind himself, ordering his machine-gun team to point their gun back away from where the V.C. were firing. before Trang could comprehend such an illogical and absurd action, especially in the middle of an ambush. He heard the voice of an obviously panic-stricken American about 30 metres to his left, unseen behind the tall grass. Above the sounds of rifle fire, men yelling and RPGs exploding. Trang could barely hear the American yelling into his radio. Fire mission! Fire mission! Troops in contact. Grid coordinates on... Great coordinator said.

Trann could now make out what the big American was saying. He was threatening to shoot and kill the American with the radio unless he did his job. Tran realized with the start that the American with the radio hidden somewhere behind the tall grass was a forward observer. Knowing the danger that he posed, Tram began to low crawl towards the enemy, intent on stopping him from calling American artillery on his units. As one of his unit's 81mm mortar rounds landed directly on top of the enemy, American forward observer's position. Smiling,

Tran turned his attention on the big American who was directing the fire of the enemy machine gun. Obviously, he was a leader of some sort, and Tran leveled his AK-47 on him. Before he could answer, however, from his firing position, Trang could hear the American Ford observer's voice in the distance, exactly where the VC mortars had struck. Cobradan, Coburban, this is VibreStrike, fire mission.

impossible thought tron how could that american still be alive he low crawled forwards through the brush pulling himself ever closer to the american positions as the firing between the two sides intensified and vc morterounds began walking towards the trapped americans soon tron was able to sneak around behind a giant termite mound and slowly pointed his AK-47 through the tall grass towards the dangerous american forward observer and the radio which allowed him to communicate with their artillery. Transited through his rifle, then stopped, a perplexed look appearing on his face. The American Ford Observer has been pulverized by our mortars, he thought. He is dead and his radio is smashed. So who did I hear transmitting those firing coordinates to the Americans? All of a sudden, the fighting positions of the heroic 773 V.C. Infantry Company erupted,

as American 105-millimeter high-explosive rounds crashed into them. The first round demolished the VC mortar tubes. The second, third and fourth rounds obliterated all three of the VC heavy machine guns, and the fifth round vaporized Captain Poong Min and the company command element. Tron watched helplessly, as every single American 105-millimeter artillery round impacted with devastating accuracy on his comrades, completely wiping out the glorious 700. 73rd V.C. Infantry Company.

It was in that moment, as he saw his unit being systematically torn asunder. The Trann felt something he'd not felt since that one fatal night months ago when a sweet-talking girl with lovely green eyes convinced him to join the glorious revolution. Remorse, regrets, and the overwhelming need for self-preservation. Completely forgetting his AK-47, Trane stood up and ran. turning his back on the battlefield and the sounds of American soldiers cheering the deaths of his comrades Tran fled back into the jungle. Picking up the trail which led back to Vintulae village, Tran followed it for several minutes, constantly looking over his shoulders for signs that the Americans were pursuing him.

Exhausted, he stopped, hands resting on the nearby tree. He bent over and was gasping for air. His heart sank with the realization that he could not return to VIII. into Light Village, not after the way he'd treated the villages. And without his AK-47, he couldn't force them to give him sanctuary. He briefly considered that he may not have been a revolutionary after all, but rather just a simple thug and a bully, a rapist who took what he wanted at the point of a gun while justifying his actions by wrapping himself in the banner of anti-fascism. He heard helicopters circling overhead and knew that they were all coming for him. He felt as if the world were coming to get him.

Tran knew that the tunnels were his only refuge, but the tunnels back at Laokai village had been completely compromised, and the tunnels near Vintu Lai, in which his company had been hiding, was soon to be discovered. His only hope was to flee to the new tunnels onto the Vintu Lai graveyards.

There he would lay low until evening, where he could melt away and get far from here. He'd make his way back up north and return to the city of Guang Tri. He was done with this war. He turned left and ran from the path leading to Vintuilai, giving the village a wide berth as he circled around to where he knew the entrance to the new tunnels was located.

Stopping to ensure that the coast was clear, Tran emerged from the jungle and raced down the heavily camouflaged narrow trail which led to the entrance. Not stopping to question why the bamboo mattress which hid the entrance had been pulled away, Tran dived into it, almost cheering in relief as the darkness

swallowed him from prying eyes. He half ran, half crawled down the shallow main entrance, then took the first right-hand turn that he came to, which then took a sharp left as the corridor descended deeper into the earth. Coming upon a four-foot hole in the corridor, Tran jumped down it, the air-smelling musty and mouldy, as the deeper tunnel ran underneath the final resting-place of the area's deceased inhabitants. There were a handful of torches which were hung on the walls, and Tron grabbed one from its sconce. lighting it with a match. The tunnels were incomplete

and the flame cast an eerie orange glow in the confined space. The walls here were tighter than they usually were. Tran felt the need to get even lower and remembered that work had started on an even lower level of tunnels. If only he could find the hole which led down to it. He didn't have to look very far

as the tunnel he was in turned sharply to the right, an narrow passage leading to a dead end where a hole had been dug in the tunnel floor. knowing that he had at last found the hiding place he'd been looking for Tron crawled down the passageway and jumped down into the black void Tron held up his torch to reveal that the hole had led him into a half-dug-out tunnel In effect he was in a pit And they were waiting for him there

As if they knew Tron would be coming And burned and charred skeletal hands clawed for him The American soldiers searching the area for any escape VC never heard Tran screaming so far, far below them. Over 5,000 working dogs served in Vietnam. They became so effective and so feared by the VC that the enemy actually placed bounties of up to $20,000 on the heads of dogs. Tragically, not one single, courageous military working dog ever returned to the United States.

When a handler's tour of duty ended, or if he were killed, A working dog would simply be given to another handler. When the war ended, the heroic dogs, which had been credited with saving tens of thousands of American lives, were considered excess baggage and many were euthanized. Some were given over to the South Vietnamese army, and some were simply left to fend for themselves. Here is the story of one such brave animal. Tales from the Iron Triangle, a dog's best friend. Operation Junction City, March 1967, Republic of South of Vietnam.

Hello. Hi, how are you? My name is Staff Sergeant Maximilian Huntingthorne III. Serial number 4537. But my handler Doug just calls me Maxie. Doug is actually Sergeant Douglas G. Betterman, and he hails from the suburbs of Akron, Ohio. Funny, isn't it? I outrank my handler.

He controls me, but I outrank him. Oh, by the way, I'm what they call a military working dog, a German shepherd with shades of light brown and tan fur. Yeah, I know. I'm a stud, and since I became an adult, I've been training for months to sniff out those really bad people called the Viet Cong, or VC, and to find all those nasty booby traps that they like to set out in the jungle to hurt people like Doug and his friends.

I'm four years old by the way so I'm not such a young pup I've had more than my fair share of bitches I first met Doug in Hawaii we were partnered together with the Army's 25th Infantry Division who were known as the Tropic Lightning Division but Doug and his friends called their unit the electric strawberry because of the way their unit patch looks now I'm not really sure what a strawberry is

but it must be something pretty funny because it makes Doug and his friends laugh whenever they describe the unit as the electric straw. I'd bark, too, just to fit in when they start laughing. But really, humans can be weird sometimes. Anyway, when I was introduced to Doug, we really didn't get along at first. He was young and skinny and pasty white, with a light blonde hair. He was totally inexperienced, and I could tell that he was nervous around me and was hesitant to control me.

Doug kept flubbing up with search drills, which I instinctively knew inside out. I'd tug and pull on my leash to get him to do the right thing, but he'd only fuck up some more and get more frustrated. I'd bark at Doug to get his head out of his ass, and Dog's drill instructor would yell at him for being stupid. I didn't mind that Dog kept getting yelled at. He was going to be my new partner. I had to know that I could trust him to do his job and keep us both safe.

I'm kind of a big deal, you know. There aren't many young studs like me that can hack it in the army. But the runt stuck with the program. I'm never missing a day of training even though Doug was constantly getting yelled at by the drill instructors for dog handling infractions or simply just messing up a search drill. To tell you the truth, I used to screw around with Doug just to watch him get in trouble with his instructors. I remember this one time when we were training on searching for small amounts of explosives in a line of parked jeeps at Schofield Barracks, the home of the 25th Infantry Division in Hawaii. I'd done the drill hundreds of times before I could smell at a small.

amount of C4 had been planted underneath the gas tank of the fifth jeep in the park column. But as Doug and I completed our search with the fourth Jeep and was approaching the fifth jeep, I took off running after a squirrel that I saw skittering across the parking lots. I lay down on my belly across from the parking lot, putting my paws over my ears and laughing hysterically at Doug's drill instructor, chewing his ass for losing control of me. I ain't lassie. If some mother humper wants to work with me, he needs to earn my respect. Another time during a command

inspection in which the handlers and the military working dogs were lined up outside the barracks and standing at attention, I lifted my hind leg and pissed all over Doug's nice, shiny boots, just as the command sergeant major walked past. That time was an accident, I swear. I really had to go and couldn't hold it in any longer.

I felt really bad that Doug got scolded in front of his entire unit, but it could have been worse. I mean, I had to shit, too. But gradually, Doug did earn my respect. I could tell that he really wanted to do his job and get good at it. He was a persistent one, working even after duty hours to build a rapport with me. And after a while, the kids kind of grew on me, you know. After dinner, Doug would sit and talk with me in the kennel,

even showing me Polaroid pictures of his girlfriend back in Akron. I'd lick the picture to show my appreciation of him sharing stories of his life with me, though in truth, Doug's girlfriend was, hideous. Where was her fur? Where was her tail? What could she smell with that tiny pointed nose? Why did she only have two teeth? Ugh. Doug could have done much better, believe me. Anyway, Doug's persistence and patience paid off and eventually we were getting through our search drills without him messing up. After a successful training mission, he'd pet my head and scratched my ears and give me a small cut of a sliced beef stick as I barked at him saying, oh, who's a good? He was a

a good handler. Who's a good handler? That's right, boy. Doug's a good handler. Well, you had to encourage these young humans every once in a while, or else they'd never know that they were doing a good job. Doug was really coming around to being a team player, and gradually we began to work together as a well-oiled machine. We'd often go to the bang-bang ranges where we military working dogs got used to the sounds of the humans playing with their black sticks that made that loud banging noise. We'd go out on long patrols where I'd have to fly. We'd have to flush out dog's friends who were acting as the nasty bad guys. But my favourite part of training was where I could jump on a human wearing thick red padding

and drag him to the ground. I could snarl at him and bark all the nasty bad curse words at him that my mama said I couldn't use when I was just a part. Finally, however, training in Hawaii came to an end and it was time for us to leave. I barely remember the human and pony show of the graduation ceremony where a bunch of human officers were blah blah blaring about how we'd soon be defeating communism free in the world of the red menace, or whatever that was. Anyway, we boarded buses that took us to the airport and soon Doug and I boarded this really big commercial plane which took us across the entire universe. In the Philippines, we got off the commercial airliner and boarded a military transport.

When we finally landed at Tarn-San-Hut Air Base in Vietnam and the giant ramp of the transport plane nose, my first thought was, Oh my God, what the hell's wrong with this place? Hawaii's hot and muggy, but this. Now, this place is ridiculous. What's that smell? Oh, my lord, how can anyone live here? I push my head against the bars of my cage,

looking around for Doug and whimpering. Please, Doug, let's go back to Hawaii. Please, Doug, this place sucks. I promise I won't piss on your boots anymore. Doug seemed less pleased than I was. to be here, but somehow seeing him standing next to me calm me down a bit. Actually, it calmed me down a lot. We were all piled into air-conditioned buses and driven to a hangar where us military working dogs were separated from our handlers. While the humans were off doing army stuff, we were

taken into a separate kennel where we were served water and food. Oh, I wasn't the only working dog in the kennel. Three other dogs had arrived with me on the transport. There were another six dogs in the kennel already when we arrived. All staff sergeants just like us, and they said that they'd been here for about a week. After we exchanged excited greetings, our kennelmates filled us in on what to expect for our first few days. We'd be given a few days to acclimatize and adjust after our long trip across something that the humans called the Pacific Ocean, which is like a water bowl only much, much bigger. I know, it sounds crazy right.

Well, anyway, afterwards we begin training on how to conduct missions here in Vietnam. The six dogs which were here ahead of us had already done four days of training and apparently things are much different here than back home. We had to get used to the different smells and the different feel of the place. After a day our handlers came to visit us and I barked with enthusiasm as I saw dogs familiar face. I could smell that he'd gone to the base PX and had bought me some of those yummy bee-sticks. He greeted me and scratched my head, telling me that they were still doing briefings and paperwork in a waiting. our field assignments and transportation out to the unit where we'd be attached to and other things which I really didn't give two shits about. I was just happy that Doug was here and I wouldn't

have even minded if he'd showed me the picture of that ugly deformed girlfriend again. The next morning the handlers of the six other dogs came to pick them up for training. Me and the three others lounged around in our holding areas doing nothing much beyond sleeping and eating. Occasionally a young female human and Air Force Sergeant who come in and check on us to feed and water us and clean out our stalls but all in all our first couple of days in the war zone were pretty boring

when the other dogs came back from their training that evening they were all barking excitedly the next morning they'd be leaving Tan-Sson-Hut airbase and finally heading out into the real war with their handlers. That evening we had another German shepherd come into

the kennels. He was older than us, a sergeant first class, and he looked tired. The female Air Force Sergeant who'd been looking after us led the old dog to his holding pen which was facing ours. She knelt in front of the dog,

hugging him and petting his head. I'm sorry, boy. You did a good job, Sergeant First Class. I'm sorry. The old dog just looked up at her sadly, licking her face. When she left, we all began barking. Hey, welcome back.

"'Wow, you're going home. "'How long we were you out there for? "'What's it like? What happened out there?' "'The old Sergeant First Glass just turned, "'laying down on a cushion with his back facing towards us. "'Oh, my handler got killed.' "'The dog grunted. "'That's all that happens.

"'My handler got killed while I survived to go home. "'God, I feel so ashamed.' "'We all sat quietly that night, "'listing as the veteran dog whimpered and grimped and cried as he slant. Occasionally he cry out. Billy, look out. Billy. Oh no.

Billy, wake up. Wake up. Billy. I'm so sorry. We didn't get any sleep that night as I lay on my cushion worrying about Doug. I didn't want to let him down while we were here. I wondered what he was doing. Early the next morning the six other dogs were picked up by their handlers and we said our goodbyes and good luck.

After breakfast, Doug and the other handlers came to pick us up to begin our in-country training. A bus took us out beyond the base perimeter where several training sites had been set up for us. Even though it was morning, the base was buzzing with activity as zoom-vrooms constantly roared into the sky. The big propeller-driven transports were landing at the base and chop-chop-copters orbited overhead. These new sights and sounds were unfamiliar to me and I was jumpy and nervous every time it was Zoom Vroom launched off the ramp, but Doug always managed to calm me down with a reassuring pat on my side, reminded me of just how cool and classier and modest I am. At the trading site, there were several local civilians who'd been hired to help us with our training.

They smelled different from the other humans who might train with back in the States. The local population scent was like a combination of sweat, rain, mold, and fish mixed in with a healthy dose of anxiety. Two veteran dogs, both ranked Sergeant First Class and their human handlers, ran us through several of our basic search drills. The veteran dogs were ferocious. I thought I was ferocious, but no. These veteran dogs were ruthless, and they frightened many of the civilians who were there to assist with the training. You can't trust anybody here in Vietnam, not even these so-called friendly civilians, but the veteran dogs. Anyone can be a potential, an eventual enemy who could harm or kill your handler.

Trust nobody. In order to prove their points, one of the veteran German shepherds tackled an elderly Vietnamese human during the next search scenario, dragging the terrified man to the ground. The handler had a difficult time restraining the veteran dog as he seemed to generally

want to rip the terrified old man's face off. Within the folds of the old man's black clothing, the handler pulled out a small amount of C4 explosives. We all took turns searching for the hidden explosives amongst the civilians. When it was my turn, I focused in on a little Vietnamese girl and charged to water, barking loudly. That's the one! That's the one! That's the one! That's the one right there! You aren't going to hurt my handler. You are not going to hurt my dog. The little girl screamed, throwing the sea for explosives away and ran from me.

The dog pulled me back, petting me and putting my favorite beef treat to my mouth. Oh yeah, I barked as the little girl's parents comforted her. Who's the dog? I'm the dog. I did feel bad for scaring the little girl. Of course we knew that we weren't there to hurt the civilians. They were, after all, helping us with our training. But it did feel good to know that our training back in Hawaii was paying off way over here

across the giant water bowl in Vietnam. And even though I knew that I was helping to protect my handler's life, I did feel a little guilty pleasure at scaring the piss out of a human. During the next training event, we were led to a white grassy field where we were supposed to find any number of hidden booby traps and explosives

hidden amongst the foliage and under the earth. I had dug into the field of tall reeds where I instantly picked up the faint scent of plastic explosives. Pushing my nose through a clump of reeds, I spotted a claymore mine attached to a near invisible tripwire. That trap eased. easily avoided, we moved on.

Further down the lane, I smelled something very unusual indeed. Somewhere ahead of us and below the ground, I could smell the scent of feces. I stopped Doug at a flat part of ground, pointing with my nose at a small mat made of thatch and curious as to know what was underneath. Doug reached down and poured up the mat, revealing a shallow pit of sharpened and fire-hardened bamboo spikes. Ah, the VC smirms their own shit on those spikes. Blocked one of the veteran dogs.

You let your handler or any of his friend's step on one of those spikes. They're literally going to be infected by a world of shit. I nodded solemnly, taking note that the Viet Cong weren't playing around. They were obviously going to be a very tough enemy, but as the days passed and Doug and I refined and honed our skills, I grew confident that I'd be able to keep my handler and his friend safe out. there in the jungle. The one thing that I was really finding hard to handle was this tropical heat and humidity. It wasn't something we German shepherds could get acclimatized to, and we had to take breaks

often as the hot days wore up. But Thug and I were tired after the first day of in-country treny, but I was feeling much more comforted, and I had been when I first arrived. I practically gulped down an entire bowl of cold water when we got back to the kennels, and wolfed down all of the beef and gravy that was served to me for dinner. The human female that watched after us and cleaned out our holding pens cheerfully refilled my water and food bowls again. She spoke happily and sweetly to us,

encouraging us to eat as much food and drink as much water as we could while we bartered her, making lewd and crude comments about how her butt didn't stink and how her teats were too big and other insults like that. I liked her.

For someone with no fair and no tail and only two teats, she was okay. We looked around for the old veteran, but he was gone, apparently on his way back to the States. By our fourth day of training, we were getting anxious and restless. I wanted to get out there in the bush and do my job. Dog came to the kennel after dinner with another chopped-up beef stick, and he sat next to my holding pen, tossing my favourite treats to me and complaining about how restless he was becoming at being stuck at the airbase.

Suddenly, something new happened. I heard too loud, whomp, hump noises which shook the kennel. In the distance a warning alarm sounded, and I saw a worried look on Doug's face, which in turn made me worried. I looked up, sniffing the air and smelling the very faint scent of ordnance exploding. I could hear the sounds of several running feet outside and people yelling instructions to head to the bunkers. I whimpered, not wanting Doug to leave and go out there where he might get hurt. Doug gave me a worried smile, petting my head and calming me down. He stayed with me throughout the entire Viet Cong motor attack on the runway end.

Thirty minutes later, the all-clear announcement was given. As he got up to leave, he rubbed my head and promised to see me first thing in the morning. The cute, for a human, female Air Force sergeant suddenly walked into the kennel as Doug was walking out. They exchanged a few pleasant words, and I could see that the smiling female was giving my dug a very inviting gaze. Oh, go for it. I bowed to Doug. She has the hearts for you, Doug, and I can smell it.

But my dog, ever the Boy Scout, simply smiled at her and screwed it quickly out the door. I shook my head in surprise and disappointment. Hey, Maxie, bought the other dogs. I think your handler's peepie's broken. They all started to laugh at me. Knock it off, you felines. I bowed.

No one makes fun of my handler. I'm sure my handler's pee-pee works just fine. He's just looking for a better-looking female to hook up with, that's all. These young runs nowadays, I tell you. Doug was like, I don't know, 21 in human years. He was always going on talking to me about how he was saving himself when he got home to marry his girlfriend. I'd lick his face out of concern for his mental stability. maybe because he was just too dumb that he didn't know how the whole mating thing was.

I mean, for the time I was three, I probably had a few litters of pups running around. Anyway, tomorrow was supposed to be our last day of in-country familiarization training at Tan Son Nutt before we finally moved on to our units. And I was looking forward to the next day. Two days later, Doug and I in about 20 of Doug's friends boarded one of those big, noisy propeller-driven transport. planes. I got news to the noise by now, but I still didn't like going up the ramp into that giant airplane. It always made me think that I was going to be gobbled up by something big. Anyway, Doug was with me, all decked out in his full combat gear and helmet, and the black

stick that made the loud bang-bang noises he and his friends always carried around. As the ramp closed and the transport started rumbling along, some of Doug's friends tried to pet me, I growled menacingly. Doug had to warn them that I was not a petting dog. Yeah, that's right, baby, I growled. We may be working together, but I don't know you, so back off. Dog's friends held their hands up and sat at a respectable distance from me, making sure that Doug was safe in his seat.

I settled down on the vibrating metal floor of the loud transport plane and got comfortable for the trip to wherever we were going. My ears began to pop, and I woke. up as we descended on an unpaved runway made of hard-packed red clay. As the ramp lowered and we prepared to get off, I got my first look at my and Doug's new home. We were at a large 25th Infantry Division forward operating base, and the first thing that hit me was the heat and the clouds of dust, followed by the smell of burning feces. I looked up at Doug and barked.

I have a bad feeling about this. Still, Doug seemed excited to be here. I loped after him as he hefted his duffel bags and field pack, loaded with what I hoped to be a year's supply of beef sticks, following the rest of his friends off the plane. As we all stood around the edge of the runway, waiting for someone to tell us where to go. I took a look around.

There were sandbag bunkers everywhere, and even more of Doug's friends running around doing army stuff. There were large clanky clanks with big, really big bang-bang sticks on the, them that made lots of noise and smelled of gas and made the ground tremble as they rumbled by. In the field beyond the runway were part rows of choppeders which weren't fun to ride on because I'm not a really big fan of heights. Clouds of dust rose everywhere, mixed in with the smell of burning feces. Looking around, I found the source of the feces smell as I saw two of Doug's friends who looked very unhappy standing in front of a line of wooden outhouses.

using big metal poles to stir gasoline inside metal barrels to burn their shit. Well, I wonder who those guys pissed off to have that, Judy. I barked it dark. I was roasting standing there under the hot dusty sun. Well, Doug pulled off his field pack and fished out my silver water bowl from inside and filled it with water for me. I lapped it up eagerly, congratulating myself for training my handler so well. before our transport took off

I watched as a group of Doug's friends carried seven long green rubber bags to the rear of the plane and reverently carry them up the ramp I moaned in sorrow those were some of Doug's friends but they were dead now I'd never smelled real death before

at least not the scent of one of Doug's dead friends we all stood silently as the ramp closed and the transport revved up its engines would take off I barked at Doug What did we get ourselves into Soon two of those really big noisy trucks drove up And me Doug and all his friends climbed up into the back of one

And we took seats on the wooden benches The trucks drove down a ways on a dirt road And we passed several tents and bunkers Thankfully headed away from the wooden outhouses I sat next to Doug facing outwards And let my tongue wag as the wind whip past my cheek I were lots of Doug's friends here, more than I'd ever seen before, and I barked greetings at them as we passed.

Hi, Doug's friends. Hi, Doug's friends. Hi. Hey, Doug's friends! Doug's scratch my back and I settled down. I was glad he was here with me. We all got off in front of a row of dusty tents, which were lined with sandbags, and stood at attention as one of Doug's friends wearing shiny rank on his collar said some things which

I couldn't have cared less about. I was getting hungry and I could smell beef cooking from a large tent behind the guy with the shiny rank Well after shiny rank guy said his fancy schmancy speech about so welcome to the first battalion third brigade of the 25th Tropic Lightning and we're gonna kick Charlie's ass out of the iron triangle and blah blah blah Well, Mr Fancy shiny rank guy dismissed all of Doug's friends he came up to Doug and said Sergeant Baderman, welcome to the company. He looked down at me and said, Oh, you must be Maxi.

Pugh, that's stuff Sergeant Maximilian to you, buddy, I balked. Only Doug can call me Maxi. Shiny rank guy just smiled. Oh, it looks like you're ready to go out there and get the V-C. Ain't your Maxi? I just groaned and lay down. Oh, shoo, I'm glad you got here so quickly, Sergeant Betteman. shiny rank guy said you and your working dog sure saved a lot of lives out here the vc's booby traps and spider holes dug all over this valley

your dogs have been invaluable to flush them out oh thank you sir said dog to his friend boy dog sure does have a lot of friends named sir well we usually have two working dogs per company so we can rotate and give him a rest continued shiny Rangai. But I'm afraid that you and Maxi will be working alone for the time being until we can get another team in. We lost Billy about two weeks ago, and his dog became so distraught

to the point where he won't work with another handler. I understand, sir, said Doug. Don't worry about me and Maxie here. Once Maxi gets a feel for the terrain and the people, he'll be just fine. We just need to get out there. Good, said Shiny Rangar.

your first patrol will be tomorrow morning. It's a short sneak peek into an area we haven't patrol much. As it turned out, Doug and I had a hooch all to ourselves since I was a working dog. See, I told you I was kind of a big deal. We stayed in the hooch that was occupied by the previous handler, and I could smell the scent of the old Sergeant First Class that I met in the kennels at Tansan Noot. I shuddered.

I didn't want to end up like his. him when this was all over. I must feel terrible to lose your handler. Right in early the next morning, Doug and I hopped on a chopped-chop-copter, along with a bunch of his friends, and we lifted off into the sky on our first mission against the nasty, bad VC. Normally, I'd be nervous as the noisy chop-chops carried me away, but Doug was there holding me and giving me confidence, so I just leave my head out of the door and let the wind whip across my face. The dog gunner smiled and laughed at me as I barked. Yeah, I'm going to get you in bad, nasty VC, down at the sea of trees that was rushing by underneath our chop-chop cocktails.

We soon landed in the middle of a clearing in the midst of the jungle, and me and Doug jumped off. My senses were alert, and my ears were up. I sniffed the air, looking for signs of the nasty, bad VC. Doc's friends spread out in her line. pointing their black bang-bang-bang sticks into the trees. After a few seconds, Doug motioned me forwards, and I led the way into the jungle. Besides the sounds of the chop-chops leaving and the buzzing of insects, everything was really quiet as we entered the trees. Doug would gently tug right or left on my leash, and I'd go in the direction that he indicated.

All the while, he'd quietly encouraged me to find those nasty, bad VC. I wag my tail as a silent gesture. I was on their trail as I let Doug and his friends deeper into the jungle. The Visi were here. I could sense it. I could smell them all around us. We crossed a stream and began ascending a hill when I suddenly stopped and smelled the air. Doug also stopped and said,

What is it, Maxie? Do you smell something? Doug's friends were staring at me, pointing their black bang-bang sticks into the trees around us. I continued smelling the air before. Yep, there it was. I raced up a small incline in the hill, then pushed my nose into a clump of bushes. What's he got, Maxie? What's he got? asked Doug.

Look, Doug. I barked as I dug away at a mound of dirt. Look, look what I found, Doug. Doug pulled me back, and his friends began digging away where I had begun scratching at the soil. Soon they pulled up two vehicles. rocket launchers and several rockets out of the ground that had been wrapped in plastic and wax paper. Doug scratched my ears and said,

Ah, good job, Maxie, good job. I'm the dog. I know, I barked as I wagged my tail excitedly. Doug gave me a beef snack treat and I gulped it down gratefully. Well, apparently we'd stumble across an area where the nasty bad VC were hiding their heavy weapons because I found more shallow holes that hid RPGs. heavy machine gun ammunition and mortars. I also found a few booby traps attached to tripwires.

We waited around until the chop chops came back to pick us up, and we loaded our found treasure on them. Doug's friends then called in one of those loud and fast Air Force zoom rooms that dived into the area and dropped napalm where we had just left. Doug and his friends were all smiling at me, and I sensed that we'd done something good. Doug was smiling at me and rubbing my cheeks. I felt happy. I did good.

Maxie did good. I was happy because Doug was happy. I didn't see my first VC until a few patrols later. The chop chops had dropped us off in the same area, which we'd done our first patrol in, and I was again leading a platoon of Doug's friends into the jungle. I'd already found two small landmines planted by the VC, so I knew that they were there.

somewhere suddenly I smelled something that wasn't right and barked it Doug oh follow me Doug over here over here Doug still happy on the leash as I led him up a trail to a low foothill covered in trees that overlooked a wide clearing there under a strand of palm trees I began poking my nose into the ground here Doug here Doug look here I barked Doug did as he was told carefully lifting a camouflage mat made of ground and leaves. Underneath it was an empty shallow spider hole dug into the ground, a VC sniper rifle still sitting there wrapped in strips of racks. Ah, good job, Maxie, said Doug, scratching my back. You found a hiding hole for a VC sniper.

Oh, I sure did, Doug. Yeah, I found a hiding hole. I barked cheerfully, happy that Doug was pleased with me. Wait, Doug, I barked as I sniffed the air. I began growled. furiously as I tried to run off into the forest. What is it, Maxie? said Doug. What do you smell, boy? Oh, there's V.C. Doug. There's the V.C. I barked. He's running away, Doug. I'm going to get him. Dog, I'm going to get him. Let me loosen. I'm going to get him.

Oh, Doc, come on. Come on, dog. Let me go. I got him, Doug. Dog, unhooked my collar, and I tore into the jungle after the nasty bad VC. Go get him, Maxie. encouraged Doug. Go get him, boy. Okay, Doug, I barked. I'll get him. This way, guys. He's going this way. The nasty bad VC ran through some bushes and tried to scramble down into a narrow hole, but I caught up to him and bit him in his upper thigh. He went down hard, howling in pain. Doug and his friends were quick to run up behind me, and Doug put the leash on me and pulled me back. The VC's leg was bleeding where I'd bitten him, and he held his hands together,

over his head, as if he was begging for mercy. My adrenaline was still pumping, as Doug patted my head, saying, Ah, good boy, had a way to get him, Maxie. Yeah, I barked. Then, growling at the nasty bad VC, I barked, I'm going to bite your face. Your lucky Doug is here, because I was going to bite your face off, you nasty bad VC.

Dog's friends patched up the nasty bad VC's leg and bound his hands for transportation back to the base. After the hole was cleared away of the vegetation and leaves which hid it, Doug and I climbed into the narrow opening into the grounds. It was a small hole barely large enough for me in dark. We found packs of cooked rice wrapped in thick banana leaves, several grenades, black tripwire, and cartridge magazines for the VC's weapon. Good job, Betteman, I heard one of Doug's friends say. He's a VC scout. Probably lives in that hole and pops out to take place.

pot shots at us from that spider hole that we found back up the trail, or he sets up booby traps when he sees one of our patrols approaching. Thank you, sir, said Doug, rubbing my head. It was Maxie here who did all the work. Yeah, I barked, wagging my tail excitedly because I knew that I pleased Doug. It was Maxie who did all the work. Hey, I thought, I'm getting pretty good at this. occasionally we'd run into a bunch of little Vietnamese kids while patrolling through a village

I'd give them a quick sniff to see if they were carrying anything that could hurt Doug or his friends and continue on my way lots of times however the kids would want to pet me and I'd have to growl and bark at them as a warning to back off it's not that I didn't like the furless runs in fact I really like kids but if they were allowed to pet me Doug would get in trouble I didn't want that to happen. That's what happened when a platoon we were supporting

visited the village of Laokai. A small farming community of only a few dozen people, about half of them kids. The kids were excited to see me, but they knew to keep their distance. Doug ran me through a search of the village while his friends talked with the old village leader. The village was clean with no evidence of any weapons or explosives,

just large baskets filled with seeds and stalks, needed to be planted and a couple of water-buffles tied inside bamboo pens who were eyeing me nervously. The village is also smelled clean, and by clean I meant they didn't arouse my suspicions. Doc's friends began handing out small hard candies and treats to the little runts in the village, and they happily accepted the gifts. In all, it was just a routine visit to a small village, and I hoped that every patrol could be like this. This was a war zone, however, so naturally not every patrol had a happy ending a few days later dug and i were leading another infantry patrol into an area where the bad vc people were operating it was a long end unfortunately

uneventful day i was getting tired as the heat and humidity was taking a toll on me we were heading back to an open area in the forest where the chop chops could come and pick us up or i smelled something strange in the distance and raced off to investigate Doug trying to pour me in, but I barked that I didn't smell any bad people around us, but that what I did smell wasn't good. Doug's friends followed me as I led them to a well-hidden and narrow trail in the forest as the pungent and putrid scent grew thicker. Apparently the humans could smell it too as they raced along beside me. It soon arrived at a clearing and there, on the side of the trail, like the bodies of two little children. Their heads have been chopped off, they've been placed

next to their chests. On top of one of the children was a sign painted old wooden plank. Before Doug's friends could approach, I sniffed along a wide perimeter around the bodies. Sure enough, I discovered two pits which the bad VC people had dug

which was filled with their bamboo spikes dipped in feces, while a South Vietnamese interpreter picked up the sign and read it. This sign say, this is what happened to anyone who betrays Vietnamese people and a glorious sort. this revolution by befriending American capitalists, said the South Vietnamese soldier.

He threw the sign down in disgust, and I whimpered mortally. By their scent, I recognised the two little dead ones as the children from Lao Kai village. I paced anxiously around trying to communicate to Doug and his friends that these little runts had come from Laokai. Instead, Doug's friends reverently placed the two bodies into green ponchos and carried them to the landing zone where the chop-shops came to pick us up. That night, back at the base camp, neither Doug not I had much of an appetite for dinner, though Doug did fetch me as much fresh water as I could drink.

Doug and I were sitting outside of our tent on some sandbags. It was a cool evening, and Doug was scratching the back of my head, which helped calm me after the horrors I discovered earlier. How can they do that to those little kids, Maxie, said Doug. They're just children. Oh, I don't know, Doug, I barked. your species is really screwed in the head but now i know why we're here via kong are bad they're really bad dog bad kong bad i licked dog's hand hoping to reassure him you did good today maxi said dog

and my heart leapt to the compliment from my handler well i just hope that your friends discover that those little ones were from lau kai village dog i barred two days Two days later, Doug came into Ahush after his daily briefing with his friends. He was in a particularly aggressive mood. Come on, Maxi. Our intel guys have learned that those two murdered children may have come from Laokai Village. The village leader reported that two of their children were kidnapped by the VC a few days ago. We're going with an infantry platoon today, back into the village.

Yes, I bought. It's about time. Come on, Doug, let's go get him. Bad vehicle. The chop chops dropped us off really close to the village that morning. Three squads of Doug's friends surrounded the village while I led a fourth squad inside. The feeling there was far different than the last time we'd come. It was more tense and anxious, and the feeling made me nervous.

Doug's friends talked with the village leader again while Doug and I cleared the village. He was clean, just like before, but the baskets of sea. seeds and stalks waiting to be planted had more than tripled, as if the villagers were planning to plant crops for many, many more people than I actually lived here. Dog's friends showed the village leader pictures of the dead bodies of the two murdered children, and the entire village erupted in wailing and mourning. I sat next to Doug, feeling terrible that we were the bringers of bad news. Suddenly I picked up a scent, and I felt something that didn't feel right.

The villagers were standing in a circle around Doug's friends, crying bitter, silly. I ran towards the villages, dragging Doug behind me and barking. It was you. It was you, you son of a feline. It was you. Get him, Doug. Get him. The panic villagers flared from me, and Doug's friend stared at me in horror as I chased and isolated one of the villages, a man who looked to be Doug's age. He ran to a nearby tree, trying and failing to climb up it. V.C. Doug, I barked. This is a VC. I smelled his scent on those kids He's VC

He killed those kids Let me bite him Doug Let me bite his pee-p-dug Dogg Dog's friend surrounded the bad man The South Vietnamese interpreter Attached to the Batoon Question the village leader about the young man

The village leader said that the young man Showed up after our last visit to the village Claiming to be a refugee Looking for work after his village And been destroyed Well because it was planting season And the young man was healthy and strong the village accepted him into the community.

See, Doug, he's a VC. Doug struggled to hold me back as I reached for the cowering VC soldier. Oh, just one bite, Doug. Give me just one bite. I'll bite his pee-pee. Doug's friends took away the VC soldier and threw him into the chop-shops

that came and picked us up before the villagers could cut the VC up into little pieces. Back at our base camp, Doug and his friend celebrated the capture of the bad VC man. and they kept giving me extra portions of food which I gratefully accepted it. They even allowed some of them to pet me. Doug and I have been working together with the infantry for the past few weeks now,

and I groan to trust most of the soldiers in the battalion. Well, except the vegetarians. These soldiers who said that they were vegetarians came from a truly demented alternate universe, which they call California, and I couldn't fully trust a soldier from that insane plane of existence that didn't eat red meat. They smelled different, like broccoli and salt mixed with regrets. Still, it felt good to see my handler Doug get the praise and accolades from his friends that he deserved. Doug and I were a great team, and I reveled at my new skills, the more patrols we went on,

and the more experience I gained. Though Doug was of a lesser species than me, Doug had indeed proven that he was someone that I could trust. Doug never left my side, talking to me, encouraging me, and yes, even kicking my butt when I didn't feel like going outside to take a piss. We've been called to support lots of infantry patrols in the week since our arrival and, because of us, not one single American soldier had been hurt or killed because of a nasty, bad VC booby trap. Then, one night, Doug came into our hooch after dinner chow and mail-call and slumped down on his cot. his back resting against the sandbags on the other side of the tent wall. I looked up from where I was sleeping and could tell that all was not well with my handler. I walked over and licked his hands in greeting.

What's up, Doug? How are you doing? What's that in your hand? Looks like a letter. Is it another letter from your girlfriend, Doug? Did she send you more pictures? It doesn't smell like perfume, Doug. Usually her letters smell like perfume. Doug reached down and scratched my ears.

Usually you'd have a beef stick for me, but tonight I guess he forgot. He exiled as he rubbed my head absent-mindedly. Oh boy, this was bad. Something was really bothering my handler. I jumped up on his cot and started licking his face. What's the matter, boy? What's the wrong? What's trouble you, Doc?

Tell you, Maxie. Oh, Maxie, said. Doug, you always know how to make me smile. He crumpled up the letter and tossed it on the floor. Well, Maxie, I guess I'm not getting married when I get back. My girlfriend hooked up with this hippie, some anti-war peace protester at Kent State, who got to tell her how we're not doing anything but killing babies over here. She called me a monster and broke up with me.

That stupid feline, I barked. I told you you should have hooked up with the Air Force chick back at town. on nut. She gave me beef chops and gravy, Doug. I bet she would have given you beef chops in gravy. I licked his face and rested my head on his lap. He continued scratching my head and I could feel his breathing calm, while I could still tell that he was heartbroken.

I felt bad for him. Doug sighed. Maxie, sometimes I think you know exactly how I'm feeling. I didn't say anything more. Sometimes the best thing for a friend to do is just be there to listen to your handler and offer him a furry shoulder to lean on when he needed to cry. When I was sure that Doug was asleep, I crept off the cot and walked over to where Doug had tossed the offending letter. And I lifted my leg and pissed on it. No one hurts my handler.

No one hurts my dog. The next morning we were part of a company-sized element assigned to go into the bad people's territory. The chop chops were going to land us in. into a valley a lot of VC bad people were supposed to be living in. This must have been a big mission today because the sky was full of chop chops filled with dog's friends. I even saw a few other military working dogs like me climbing into other chop chops with their handlers. I also had too noisy and fast zoom from, so circling overhead. This was a big deal today.

A twelve chop chops were descending into a valley when I saw two of them suddenly shudder and start belgium. smoke. They pulled away from the formation to return to base, trailing white smoke behind them, while our door gunners started bang banging the jungle below us with their bang-bang-bang sticks that were mounted outside the door of our chop-chop. Our formation of chop chops dropped out of the sky. Doug's friends who were flying them, putting us down on the opposite side of the hill we were originally supposed to land on. I was immediately on alert when me and Doug jumped out of our chop chop and i could sense that dug was nervous to go find him boy go find him said dog what's the matter boy where are they i looked around nervously whimpering they're all around us dog i barked there they're all around us

they've been here they're doing something big dog dog's friends became nervous when they saw that i was nervous and they all stared at me, waiting for me to lead them to the nasty bad VC. I gulped. They're all around us, Doug. Where do I go? Doug's friend, Mr. Shiny Rank, pulled out his map and spoke briefly with Doug. Doug nodded in understanding and directed me to follow a path into the jungle that led up the hill to our west. Oh, this was bad. This was bad. This was bad. This was bad. This was what. bad. No sooner had I led Doug and his friends into the jungle, then I halted and began sniffing at the ground. I could smell VC. Doug pull me back and carefully step forwards, pulling up a mat of woven leaves to reveal another hidden VC pit filled with bamboo spikes. Only this time

the spikes weren't coated in feces, making the trap harder for me to detect. Oh, thanks, Doug, I barked. There, everywhere. I found two more booby traps, including a command-detonated Claymore mine pointing down the way we come. We carefully follow the detonating wire of the Claymore up to an empty VC spider hole. I must have been in here, said Mr. Shiny rank. Probably another damn VC scout. We were over three thousand feet when those two Hueys got hit.

The VC must have something big. hidden up in these hills, heavy caliber machine guns, or maybe something even bigger. Whatever it is, Battalion wants us to find it. We continued moving to the top of the hill, which gave us a commanding view of the valley. We stopped briefly and Doug watered me before we continued on. Overhead, I could see the two big zoom-room still flying in orbit around the entire valley as we descended a slight slope leading down the other side of the hill. The smell of V.C. grew stronger, and despite Doug being there with me, I was getting tense. I was so worried for him.

I won't let you down, Doug, I whimpered. I won't let you down. All of a sudden, I stopped, sniffing the air. I found him, Doug. I found him. Doug kept me on the leash as we raced down the embankment, followed by Doug's friends. They're here, Doug, I barked. They're here. We emerge from the bushes about ten meters behind a dug-out enemy fighting position. Three Vietnamese were in the pit, sitting behind one of their nasty bad machine bang-bangs. They were facing away from us, pointing their machine bang-bang down into the valley.

Doug pulled up in surprise, then shot all three of them with his black bang-bang stick on full automatic bang-bang. There was another bad guy pit dug in just on the opposite side. of a strand of trees but dog's friends blew that one up with a neat little stick that goes dum-tum-tum oh you got him dog you got him i barked proudly we cautiously went forward and i sniffed the bad man to make sure they were dead these dead vc were different from the others i'd seen they wore honest to elvis military uniforms just like my dog only their uniforms were colored tan and they wore pith helmets instead of a steel pot like the one dog wears. Fuck, said Doug, and I was briefly impressed.

My Boy Scout was growing up and using Big Boy words. These aren't VC. He's a main force North Vietnamese army regulars. They're NVA. Call this up to Battalion, said Shiny Rang Guy to the poor sucker who had to carry the radio. Dow the BC, we have main force MVA in the area. all of a sudden we heard a loud Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum

come from the hills north and west of us We all dove for cover As small explosions erupted all around us I whimpered Doug grabbed me, lifting me up And together we dived into the NVA Fighting Position and took cover All around us the earth

Was churning with small explosions And tree branches fell Doug covered me with his body As I covered my eyes with my paws barking Oh, they got a big bang-bang-bang stick, Doug. Their big bang-bang stick is bigger than our one, Doug. But Doug, rubbed my head, trying to comfort me amidst all the noise of chaos and yelling.

I could hear a shiny rank guy yelling into the radio. Pinned down. Pinned down. Pinned down. We got V.C. heavy automatic weapons fire from the hills, west and north of our position. Looks like they have fucking 23-millimeter cannons dug into the side of the mountains. we need air support now. Our two zoom rooms came diving out of the sky

towards the nasty black guys. I smelled the Viet Cong sniper before I saw him. He peaked out of the bushes about a hundred meters behind Doug, pointing one of those nasty S-KES rifles at Doug's back. Doug didn't even notice him. I love that kid. I love that little runt. I bowed a warning at Doug and took off race.

racing towards the VC sniper and jumped in front of him just as he fired at my duck. I heard Doug yell, Maxie! Well, anyway, here's where I get off. It's been really nice talking to you. I hope that you like my story. Sorry that I didn't catch your name. I'd lick your face if I could for sticking around and listening to my story.

I really do miss Doug, though. he's from Akron, Ohio If you see him Tell him his maxi says Hi Owen Tell him to stay away from those ugly Furless bitches with no tales

Four US Army soldiers Reverently lifted the small White wooden coffin From its cradle And gently lowered it into the ground Tears flowed freely down Sergeant Douglas Bederman's face The staffed Sergeant Maximilian

Maxie Huntingthorn the third's coffin was lowered into the ground of South Vietnam, Maxie's final resting place. Sergeant Bederman, along with the entire infantry company, saluted as Taps played mournfully in the background for the courageous military working dog who'd given his life to protect his handler. A golden plaque on Maxie's coffin,

written by his handler dark red, brave, beyond what? words, ferocious without self-regard, bonds never broken, loyal till death. Of the entire company of infantrymen that had been ambushed in the valley, Maxi was the only casualty. Tales from the Iron Triangle. The Enemy of My Enemy. Operation Junction City, March, 1967. Republic of South Vietnam. You have got to be kidding me, Red. Big Sergeant First Class Pretty, a green do-rag wrapped around his baldhead,

looked down with disdain at the drawing that the South Vietnamese soldier had handed him. The South Vietnamese soldier was acting as the platoon's interpreter for the day, as the American soldiers patrolled through the villages, looking for VC insurgents among the civilian population. They are not joking, Sergeant Pretty, said the interpreter, who the soldiers from the American First Infantry Division, had nicknamed Redd. This what the villagers say took their chickens and goats.

Red, said the giant American soldier, tell the village leader that we're looking for the VC. Sgt Pretty looked again at the drawing, then crumpled up the paper. We aren't out here to chase around after monkeys. Red turned and spoke to the old man, who was the village leader of Camvan, a farming village in the Iron Triangle,

which was known also for making furniture out of Bambo. Bhan Van Village was located a coal armeter east of its sister village, Vintoulai. Sergeant First Class Priddy and his platoon of American soldiers of the First Infantry Division, the famous Big Red One, were back patrolling the valley two weeks after they'd survived an ambush by a far larger force of Viet Cong. Thanks to some very well-placed artillery, Sergeant Priddy's platoon emerged victorious over a VC company-sized element and lived to chase Charlie in the Iron Triangle for another day. Batututs, said the old village leader.

Batututs. Red was getting frustrated with the village leader, repeating over and over that the Americans had come to Kamvan village to find the Viet Cong who'd taken their chickens and livestock. But the village leader and several of the other villagers continued repeating the words. Batututs! Batututs!

Hey, Stuart, barked sergeant, first-class pretty, now for Company's muscular six-foot-three-inch-first platoon sergeant. "'Stewart. You and Benning get your M-60 machine-gun up to Campbell's squad "'and watch my perimeter around the village.' "'We're moving, Sergeant,' said the machine-gun team. "'Dammit, bliss!' yelled Sergeant Pretty. "'You and Polk get your squads moving and check out them hoochies.' "'Sargent Pretty pointed a group of thatch-huts with his M-16 rifle

"'that looked like a small stick compared to his thick arm. "'Tertain anyone for questioning that don't abla, democracy good.' We're on it, Sergeant. Red, said Sergeant Pretty, biting down on a thick cigar and turning to his Vietnamese interpreter. I don't hear them villagers saying those magic words. Why don't hear them saying anything that remotely sounds like Viet Cong, Red? They say that Batututs, come in the night and take their animals, said Red. Villagers say increased activity in the area, helicopters, soldiers, artillery, maybe even VC movements, have driven the Batututut.

down from the mountains. Red, said Sergeant Pretty, throwing his rifle over his shoulder like a shotgun. I'm just a country boy from Beatrice, Nebraska. My country ass can't even say Batutut, much less know what the hell that means. Is that the Vietnamese word for Harry Griller-Face Vietcar? Oh, so sorry, Sergeant Pretty, said Red.

Batotutut means wild man of the mountains. I think you Americans call them rock-edged. Jesus, H. Really? yelled Sergeant Pretty. You're telling me that Papa Son here is saying we're hunting freaking Bigfoot? It seemed to read that the big American sergeant named Pretty only spoke two languages, yell and loud. Sergeant Pretty turned to the old Vietnamese man.

Hey, Papa Son, are you saying that Bigfoot took your chickens? But to... The old village leader nodded. Yes. Yes, but tutu-tut. Sergeant Pretty threw up his hands in frustration, then placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head. Hey, specialist hood.

Get over here with that radio. Sergeant Pretty was also wearing the hat of acting platoon leader as the first platoon's lieutenant had been hurt in the earlier VC ambush and would be away for a few weeks recovering from his fragmentation injuries. Leopard 2.6. Leopard 2.6. This is Leopard 1-5. Leopard 26 was the platoon leader of Alva Company's second platoon, who were patrolling a kilometer away through Vintulae Village. Two-six, this is one-five, repeated Sergeant Pretty.

Hey, sir, I think we're done here at Camvon Village. The villages are here saying that it wasn't the VC that stole their livestock and chickens. Leopard 1-5, Leopard 26, replied the second platoon lieutenant on the other end of the radio. Yeah, same here. Let me guess, the villages are blaming their losses on some damn rock apes. Sergeant Prittie's eyes lit up in surprise. As a matter of fact, sir, that's exactly what they're saying here. The villagers are talking about, what the hell do they call them, but-toot-toots?

The villagers said they came down from the mountains or some shit like that. Yeah, said the lieutenant. Our interpreter text says that the village leader here at Ventu Lai said a rock ape had been responsible for taking their chickens and even a few dogs in the past week. I think it's a load of crap, sir, said Sergeant Pretty. I think the VC hid these villages for their livestock, and the villages are blaming it on some damn mythical Bidford, so they don't incur our wrath or the wrath of the VC. I concur one-five, said the second platoon, lieutenants.

There's not much we can do about it. We can't force them to cooperate. Let's do a clover leaf patrol around the villages. Out to about one click. Then we'll link up at the LZ for a pickup and call it a day. Who knows? maybe we can back ourselves a Bigfoot. Sounds good, sir, said Pretty.

One five out. Squad leaders, police up your people and prepare to move out. We're getting out of here. Red. Sergeant Pretty turned and yelled to his interpreter. Tell Papa Son here that I think his story's bullshit. Tell him it will be around day and night and that he don't need to be surrendered any more of his livestock to the VC.

Red turned and relayed Sergeant Pretty's passing message to the village leader. The village leader shook his head, vehemently saying, No, no, no, V.C. Batutut, Batut. Yeah, yeah, yeah, said Sergeant Pretty as he walked away. Battoot, Toot. Rally up, first platoon. We're moving out.

The patrols around Camvan and Vintou Lai Village by the two American platoons turned up no VC, but the second platoon did find the carcasses of three chickens which looked to have been torn apart by some predator. Two hours later, both platoons were packed inside UH1 Huey helicopters, headed back to one of the first infantry division's battalion forward-operating bases. Squad leaders, I want an equipment check done in ten minutes. Yield Sergeant Priddy as his platoon disembarked their helicopters.

I want all sensitive items accounted for, and I want all weapons clean before anyone goes to Chow. Got that? Roger that, Sergeant, replied his squad leaders as they took charge of their men. Sergeant Pretty and the second platoon leader, second Lieutenant Reynolds, made for the command tent where Alpha Company's commander, Captain Tazewell, and First Sergeant Wayland,

are waiting. Freaking Bigfoot, said Captain Tazwell as soon as they stepped in. He rested his elbow on his wooden field desk, his head and his hand. Really? The Bigfoot's watch responsible for taking the village's livestock.

Rock apes, said Lieutenant Reynolds. But to, too. sir, said Sergeant Pretty. Pretty, said First Sergeant Wheland. We're indoors, you can tone it down. Roger Top, yelled Sergeant Pretty. The villagers said that it was but two-toots that stole the livestock.

First Sergeant Whelan rolled his eyes. Sergeant First Class Pretty only spoke two languages, loud and louder. I'm sending another patrol out tonight, said Captain Taswell, an experienced infantry commander whom Sergeant Pretty had grown to respect. Someone has taken the village as livestock, and I'm not buying the whole rocket bullshit. The VC's moving in force into the Iron Triangle. They're forcing the villages to plant more crops and are taking their farm animals.

Brigade S2 thinks they're preparing for a massive offensive next year during the Tet holiday. I want eyes on Camvan Village tonight. We're on it, sir. Yield Sergeant Pretty. What time will be moving out, sir? I was going to use third platoon, started Captain Taswell. Nineteen hundred hours is perfect, sir,

Yacht Sergeant Pretty. The choppers can drop us into one of the alternate landing zones in the valley, and I can get us into positions to overwatch the approaches to Camvan. Pretty, said first Sergeant Wayland. The commander said he was going to use third platoon to. We'll be ready at 1900 hours, top. Yard Sergeant Pretty, and first Sergeant Wayland rolled his eyes,

again, imagining that it was John Wayne that shines Sergeant Priddy's boots. The UH-1 Huey's dropped off Sergeant Priddy's first platoon back into the valley that evening, and pretty quickly led his men into the jungle, placing them into observation positions overlooking the trails which led to Camvan Village, and the platoon settled in for a long night of waiting. Throughout the night, the faint sounds of automatic weapons fire echoed across the valley as Americans and the VC played their nightly game of Cadden Mouse. Other times, illumination rounds lit up the sky over distant locations in the valley, and unseen helicopters and fighter jets could be heard overhead.

But in the area around Camvan village, it was quiet, safe for the constant buzzing of the feeding VC mosquitoes that tormented the Americans lying in ambush. As the hours passed, Sergeant Pretty's frustration grew. His platoon had gone through all this trouble to set up an ambush, and the damn VC refused to show up to get properly killed to death. An hour into dusk, with absolutely no activity having occurred in the platoon's area of observation, Priddy checked his watch. It was 0500 in the morning. In two more hours, he called in the choppers

which would extract his platoon from this wild goose chase. This had proven to be a waste of 10 hours and Priddy wanted to get his platoon back in time for breakfast, chap. Also, he was feeling strutble growing on the top of his head and he wanted to take a razor to it before the next mission. At 0.650, Sergeant Pretty whispered to his radio man who was hunkered down next to him. Hey, Hood, give me that radio. Here you go, Sarge, said Hood sleepily, rolling out his poncho liner and handing Pretty the radio handmike. All of a sudden the sounds of Vietnamese yelling came from the densely forested hillside below them, 400 meters away on the opposite side of the main trail that led to Camvan Village. There's your freaking rock apes right there,

hood grunted sergeant pretty get ready sergeant pretty rolled over as the yelling from the opposite hillside grew louder crouching low he ran over to his machine gun team steward benning get your asses up and point your m60 machine gun down there while charlie is losing that shit we weren't sleeping sarge protested stewart coming instantly awake yeah bullshit don't tell me you weren't sleep in your assholes rumbled sergeant pretty but Both of you are on garbage detail forever until you die, but you two sleeping beauties may get back on my good side if you can kill me some of Ho Chi men's assholes this morning. Roger Sergeant, said Stuart and Benny. Gamble, bliss, bulk, hissed pretty to his squad leaders. Get your people up. We may have your damn A K-47 carrying a butt-toot-toots about to show themselves down there. A loud, guttural roar echoed across the valley end, for once,

Sergeant Pretty was speechless. He stared down the hillside to where the unnerving sound came from. It was like a howl combined with a growl, filled with anger and malice, and the sounds of Vietnamese voices rose in panic. Pretty ran back to his machine-gun team, which was now fully awake, their eyes wide and glued to the opposite tree line. The sounds of trees being wrenched from the ground accompanied the inhuman, angry roaring. I don't care if mother-humping King Kong can't.

out of that jungle, yelled pretty to his machine gunners. I want you two to light his ass up, got it. Don't worry, Sarge, said Stewart. His eyes focused on the tops of the saplings, which were falling over in the distance. Though nothing yet emerged from the opposite hillside, the sounds of multiple AK-47s firing could be heard mixed in with the panic Vietnamese voices. Soon, six VC soldiers finally emerged from the tree line below the Americans, five carrying AK-47s and one hefting an RPG. Once they emerged from the jungle, they turned. The VC armed with the AK-47s firing furiously back into the jungle

while their comrade let loose with the RPG. The explosion of the rocket-propelled grenade was followed by the crash of trees in the guttural howl of pain. Light him up, shouted Sergeant Pritty as he fired his M-16. Pretty's platoon immediately followed suit, firing down at the VC. It wasn't often that the Americans got the... drop on the VC and pretty had to admit that it felt good as he saw four of them fall in a heap

under the fire of his platoon while the surviving two fled back into the jungle which they just emerged from see's fire cease fire commanded pretty then waving his hand in a circle above his head he yelled let's move first platoon he shot his hand straight forward down the hill like it was a knife signaling to his men that they would advance as a single column to where they killed the VC Your squad has points. Bulk. Your squad takes slack. Five meters spread.

Remember, you non-shooters let two of those bastards get away, so stay alert and move out. We're moving, Sarge, responded his squad leaders. The platoon moved out in single file down the hill. Sergeant Pretty catching up to the point squad. Normally he wouldn't do this, but he was curious to see what it was that could have scared the VC out of the jungle.

He got on the radio to Captain Tassarol back at the point. the fire base. Six, this is one-five, yell Pretty into the radio. We got the drop on a squad of VC, we're moving out to check out the bodies. Roger 1-5, said Captain Taswell. We don't usually catch him in the daylight.

What happened? Well, sir, pretty responded. It um, looks like something chased him out of the jungle and into the open. You're freaking shitting me, 1-5, said Captain Taswell. Something chased them out of the jungle. We'll be back on this whole rocky bullshit again? Tell me, you kidding, one-five.

I wish I was, sir, said Sergeant Pretty. We heard something right before the VC was flushed out. It was loud and sounded angry. Okay, one-five, said Captain Tarswell dubiously. Be careful. Do you need any support? Yeah, said Sergeant Pretty. I need the Empire State Building.

I need Faye Ray and I need it. a half dozen bioplanes armed with machine guns. Okay, smart ass, said Taswell. I'll see what I can do. Keep me updated, one five. Six out. When the platoon reached the site where the VC had emerged from the forest, Sergeant Pretty had told his soldiers to form a secure perimeter as he examined the bodies. Before dead VC had looks of fear frozen on their faces, as if they were less concerned with the Americans firing down on them than whatever the hell it was that was chasing them.

There was the overwhelming scent of rot and stink in the air. Being from Beatrice Nebraska, Sergeant Pretty likened it to a combination of swine and cow dung mixed with rotting meat times ten. Suddenly the agonized screams of men pierced the air, coming from the jungle which was abruptly cut off by the sound of bones breaking and flesh tearing. Let's move, commanded Sergeant Pretty,

and the platoon plunged deeper into the jungle, where the pungent smell of feces and rot steadily grew stronger. Soon the Americans came upon a thick fallen tree Which the explosion of the Viet Cong rocket-propelled grenade Had caused a drop across the jungle floor The thing trapped under the tree trunk was big At least seven feet tall standing It was covered in short, dark fur

And had a simian face which was uncomfortably human-looking The thing was pushing helplessly to lift the tree off of its body Its breathing shallow Sergeant Pretty looked down at the smelly hairy thing definitely wasn't an ape in fact it looked more human than ape though the similarities with grillers could not be denied the things all too human-looking eyes looked up at sergeant pretty with anger fear and helplessness panting breathlessly sergeant pretty looked down at it with pity oh you got an ugly face only an ugly mother could love he said he turned to his men

get your asses over here and lift this tree up come on move it took the strength of the entire platoon, but eventually they were able to lift the tree off of the hairy man thing and tossed it aside. The bud-toot-tooth's breathing was shallow and labored, and Sergeant Pretty could see that he'd been hit by several AK-47 rounds. Looked at Sergeant Pretty with eyes that seemed to express gratitude. Hey, drama, shouted Sergeant Pretty. Get your ass over here. The platoon's medic ran to Sergeant Pretty's side. Can you do anything for him? He asked.

I don't... Shit, I don't know, said the medic. What the hell is this thing, Sarge? God, he smells like shit. Sergeant Pretty, the old steward, one of the platoon squad leaders. We got movement all around us. The shapes of large humanoid figures appeared around them, surrounding the American platoon from the forest only ten meters distant.

Though the creatures were so close, the American soldiers were having a difficult time seeing them, camouflaged as they were against the thick jungle foliage. The smell of feces rot and mold overwhelmed the American soldiers as they raised their weapons. The dark, hairy-shaped stalked towards the platoon, the remains of the last two VC soldiers gripped in their hands. Sergeant Pretty looked down, seeing that the thing's eyes stared blankly into nowhere. Okay, everyone, he yelled.

I want everyone to shoulder your weapons. Everyone. Showed your freaking weapons. Put your hands up and back the fuck out of here slowly. Put your heads down and follow me. Do not look at them. Keep your hands off your weapons and follow me. Sergeant Pretty raised his hands while lowering his eyes

and took slow and deliberate steps backwards. His platoon followed him, imitating his passive actions as they cautiously backed out of the jungle tree line. Nervously, Priddy led his submissive soldiers out the way they'd come in and emerged into the field which they'd crossed. The large, hairy, humanoid creatures snarled and barked at them, but despite all of the noise, the rock apes allowed the frightened Americans to leave. Sergeant Pretty submitted his after-action report to Captain Taswell, candidly describing the weird events that his platoon had experienced.

The creatures that the platoon had encountered ranged in height from six to seven feet, were covered in dark, brown or grey fur and had Simeon-like faces with heavy-set brows. For his part, Captain Taswell submitted his report. to higher headquarters exactly how Pretty had reported it. But by the time Sergeant Priddy's report reached the brigade High Command, the politically correct administrative staff officers had edited the report to read that 50 of the VC had been killed in the ambush. There was no mention of the mysterious smelly creatures which the Americans had named rock apes.

Operation Junction City, the American multidivisional push into the enemy-held iron triangle, wasn't turning out the high enemy body count the politicians back in Washington had hoped for. nor was it producing the high awarding of medals that the generals had expected. A bunch of high-ranking brigade-level officers took credit for the supposed killing of so many of the VC, and a flood of shiny medals were awarded to them. The officers taking full credit for an event they'd had no participation in. Two days later, Sergeant First Class Pretty's platoon was again packed into UH-1 Huey helicopters, this time flying deeper into the Iron Triangle towards another farming village by the name of Sock Trank.

The village was larger than most of the surrounding ones, and was at a crossroads of several major jungle trails that served as a major trading post in the centre of an area where several villages were located. It was the closest things of what could be described as a town in that part of the area of operations, and twice a month the surrounding population would congregate to the sprawling Socktrak village to sell their produce,

livestock, crafts and tools. Situated two clicks north of Camvan Village and Vintou Lai and several other surrounding villages, Sok Trang was a valuable duel in the communist plan to dominate the iron triangle. The first platoon helicopters dropped Sergeant Priti and his men three clicks south of Sokrang, while Lieutenant Reynolds and his second platoon were dropped three clicks to the north. They were pushed through the jungle to within half a click of the village and settle in, observing the trails and looking for signs of VC activity.

Sergeant Priddy personally took points, leading his platoon as they plunged into the sea of green jungle. Though he had a plethora of very experienced point men, Sergeant Priddy usually took point when his platoon was going into totally uncharted territory. Soon afterwards, he found a trail leading deeper into the jungle, as well as two black tripwires which led to two VC potato mash of grenades. They're here, boys, whispered Sergeant Pritty to his men. Keep your eyes peeled. There's a good bet that Mr. Victor got snipers in the trees. The platoon continued through the jungle, walking in single file.

behind Sergeant Pretty for almost an hour, as he occasionally swung his machete to cut a path through the bush. Do you see them, Sarge? whispered specialist hood, the platoon radio man. Yep, said Sergeant Priddy. They've been following us for the last hundred metres or so. Less than 100 meters to either side of the Americans, large humanoid shapes skittered next to them, briefly appearing as dark shadows in the jungle before quickly disappearing.

The fetid stench of feces drifted around the sun. soldiers. Stay gone, people, ordered Sergeant pretty. Keep your eyes focused on what's ahead of you. We don't fuck with them, and they won't fuck with us. The sergeant called a brief halt and pulled out his map. Sochtrang village was two clicks off to their northeast, but the tree line which the platoon had been advancing in had bent to the northwest. The Americans would eventually have to leave the relative cover of the trees and move over open ground in order to get under the cover of the trees in the west and out of the prying eyes of the Viet Cong. And this would necessitate the Americans having to maneuver across an open field

bisected by a dirt trail leading to Salt Trang Village. Despite the unnerving feeling that inhuman eyes were spying upon him and his men, Priddy still had a mission to complete. Fearlessly, he pushed his men forwards, as the model of the big red one was mission first. Move out and keep your heads on a swivel, the sergeant commanded. We're not alone here. Sergeant Priddy let his platoon to the edge of the tree line,

stopping briefly to ensure that the coast was clear of VC before taking the plunge out into open ground. In the jungle surrounding them, there came soft but urgent sounds of howls and grunts, as if whatever creatures were shattering the American platoon had become agitated. There was a flurry of movement in the trees around the Americans as branches shook and leaves fell.

As soon the smell of rotten feces faded as whatever had been stalking the bewildered Americans, vanished, apparently quickly heading towards the north. Let's move, first platoon, said the sergeant. Platoon wedge, first squad right, second squad left. Three, take our six. Follow me. Sergeant pretty stepped out into the open field of tall grass,

flanked on either side by his platoon of soldiers. Looking cautiously around them, up, down, left, right, and in the tree line opposite them, the Americans cautiously advanced across the field, towards the trail which led to Sock-Tang Village. Suddenly, 100 metres to the Americans left, towards the direction where the mysterious creatures who'd been shattering them had run,

there came earth-shattering howls and in human screams, almost as if in warning. Instinctively, the American soldiers dived to the ground, seeking to hide themselves in the tall grass and reeds, looking for targets and any signs of danger. To the left, unseen but powerful arms

were throwing rocks, trees and tree branches into the jungle opposite the Americans. Panic Vietnamese voices began yelling from the jungle, 300 meters to the north of where the American soldiers have gone to ground as the rocks and trees fell into the Viet Cong positions. The commanding Vietnamese voice sounded, and immediately VC automatic weapons fire lashed out at the mysterious attackers,

who were sharing them with rocks and trees. Get your thomper going, yelled Sergeant Pretty. I want 40-mike-mike high-explosive there. The sergeant pointed at the exposed VC ambush position with his rifle. 300 metres. On it, said the platoon's 3N79 40mmere grenadiers, and in seconds the of high-explosive grenades soared into the air. The platoon's M-60 machine gun was already rocking and rolling,

and the American infantrymen were firing their M-16s on full auto at the VC soldiers who've been waiting to ambush the American platoon. screams immediately follow the crash of the 40mm high explosive grenades that exploded into the VC positions and immediately all firing from the VC position ceased an eerie silence enveloped the jungle as Sergeant Priddy and his soldiers waited tensely for any more enemy fire there was none and the howling and grunting of their mysterious companions had also stopped after a few minutes Sergeant Priddy yelled move out follow me his man followed as they quickly maneuvered to the VC ambush positions.

They found three dead VC bodies inside of shallow spider holes, which were dug into the jungle floor and evidence of several wounded VC who'd been dragged deeper into the jungle by their comrades. The sergeant looked across the field into the jungle where the butt-toot-toots had thrown their rocks and tree branches, spoiling the VC ambush. They were already disappearing back into the jungle,

but a few of the tall, hairy homoids had stopped to stare at one last time back at sea. Sergeant Pretty with shockingly intelligent eyes before turning and vanishing into a sea of green. Rise and shine, rock apes, yelled Sergeant Pretty as he stomped into the Batoon's tent a few days later. His bald head shining from a fresh, clean shave, and his breakfast cigar clamped firmly between his teeth. It's another wonderful day to go hunting in the Iron Triangle. Get up and grab your gear, you rock apes. The damn Kong ain't going to kill themselves. Most of Sergeant Pretty soldiers knew to already be up and alert before the big Encio stormed into the tent every morning.

Those unfortunate fools still asleep in their cots knowing that they could look forward to garbage and shit-burning detail. The soldiers of First Platoon of Alpha Company have grown to like their new nickname. Rock apes had a certain ring to it that appealed to the men. Hey, Polk, your Sergeant Pretty. Do you guys get that stuff that I told you to buy at the Socktran Market? "'Got him right here, Sarge,' said Polk, proudly holding up their clucking prizes in both hands. "'Good,' smiled pretty, nodding in approval. "'Now don't forget to pack the twine and the wooden stakes.

"'Huzzle up. "'You all got an hour to shire and shave, get chow before the choppers get here.' "'Hey, Sergeant Pretty,' said the UH-1, Huey helicopter pilot, "'healing to be heard above the rotor blades as Sergeant Pretty's man began boarding their assigned choppers. What are you and your rock abe's going to do with all them chickens? Sergeant Pretty took his cigar out of his mouth. We're going to tie them up with twine and leash them down on stakes by the trail leading to

Socktran village. Why the hell do you want to do that big, Sarge? Yacht the pilot. Sergeant Pretty smiled, putting the cigar back in his mouth. Let's just say that we're settling a debt we owe to a few friends. The pilot laughed. What the hell are you? you talking about Sergeant Pretty. It's not like you to be cryptic.

Sergeant Pretty laughed in return, leaning back in the Huey's canvas troop seat and stretching his long legs out in front of him. Taking a long puff of his cigar, he yelled, well, let's just say that Bigfoot hates commies. And so once again, we'll reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. I'd ask one small for your review. Wherever you get your podcast from, please write a few nice words

and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.