And that’s the way

it was…
By Dawn’s Early Light

By

Trent C. Young


Copyright  2005 by Trent C. Young
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical,
photographic, or electronic process, or in form of phonographic recording; nor may it be
stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or otherwise be copied for public or private use –
other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews without
prior permission of author. Cover art by Trent Young.

i
ii
 This book is dedicated to my wife Ava, who
believed in me… and gifted me the love and
understanding, which taught me to believe in
myself

In loving memory of my father

Phillip E. Young

Trent Young@aol.com
Phoenix, Arizona

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iv
 Foreword

I
have known for many years that this story must be told.
It is an accounting of the facts as I remember them some
thirty years later. It is not too difficult to remember
though, for I have had these memories dictate my life and have for
many of those years, yielded to the person and character I had
become because of those events. This is the story of a covert
operation in the Republic of South Vietnam after the war officially
ended. A covert mission, which I was told, was one of both
principle and one of great honor and… a mission with secrets I
would take to the grave. It is the secret of nine hundred and sixty
three American soldiers in a mass grave.
Today, as I begin to write this accounting, I do so with great
anticipation. I pray that as I go back in time and write this,
questions will be answered. I will try to take you, the reader, back
in time with me to a childhood that may give you an insight as to
what makes a man capable of accomplishing such a mission and
holding its secrets for over thirty years. In my mind, re-
experiencing the early and mid 70‟s, I stand with pride and honor
knowing that I have accomplished my mission, as I should have. I
feel that by accomplishing my mission I have given honor to my
superiors, my country, my President, and my leaders in the
Congress of the United Sates. However, in reality, as I sit here
watching the dawn of the year 2004 clawing its way to the warmth
of spring, inviting the small buds of desert flowers to envelope the

1
desert around me, I find that I have in equal numbers to those
flowers, the myriad of ways I find myself questioning my actions.
Last year, as my father was interred in Arlington National
Cemetery to lie beside my two brothers that preceded him, I
looked around at all the other headstones. They are the markers of
those that have given the ultimate sacrifice. I walked those
hallowed grounds, so quiet and peaceful with the sounds of birds
singing in harmony with the rustle of the leaves and the smell of
freshly mown grass lingering in the air as I gazed at the Tomb of
the Unknown Soldier. I stood there in quiet reverence, knowing
that I did not belong there. I was sneaking, uninvited into a world I
had inadvertently built. I stood there selfishly as mothers, fathers,
brothers, sisters, and wives lay flowers and speak words of tribute
and prayer to those that have sacrificed. I wiped the tears that left
their salty stain on my cheeks as I watched the sons and daughters,
many who have never met their fathers, weep openly at the gifts of
life that were never shared.
My mind travels through the years remembering the
celebration of the Vietnam Prisoners of War coming home. I
remember the quiet jubilance felt from each soldier returning
home from Vietnam, even if the only celebration and thanks given
was that from his family and close friends. Over the years, I have
become sickened at the discussion of so many soldiers being held
in Prisoner of War camps in Southeast Asia. I was incensed at
efforts to keep the memory alive by veterans sporting the red and
yellow colors of the Vietnam flag that made up the “Remember
Vietnam” bumper stickers or that God-damn silhouetted image on
the patch of the “POW * MIA, You Are Not Forgotten.” I have

2
come to the realization after all these years that these actions have
all been a way to exorcise guilt for not asking questions. Because
in reality, speaking the question aloud might give us answers that
each one of us are afraid to deal with or finally acknowledge that
our own United States government dared to willfully lie or deceive
us. We will use an excuse saying that we are the government‟s
pawns. But no, we are simply truly afraid of reality and the
answers that might be revealed by asking those tough questions.
It is time for me to answer the questions you have avoided. Oh
yes, we know the number of names on the Vietnam War
Memorial. We even know the names of each Prisoner of War that
came back from Vietnam. We are told that we think we know how
many soldiers are missing in action or how many soldiers may still
be held in Prisoner of War camps somewhere in Southeast Asia.
However, you must ask yourself, how did our country deal with all
of the AWOL‟s and deserters of the Vietnam War? Those young
soldiers that failed to avoid the draft or never made it to Canada
and arrived in Southeast Asia and then decided that the war was
not for them. How many left the United States as brave souls and
by circumstance decided they could not be a part of this conflict
and took refuge in the small villages, dark cities, or the dank rice
paddies of Southeast Asia? Of those, how many families received
the news that their sons were Missing in Action, Prisoners of War
or Killed in Action?
I am here to tell you what happened to the nine hundred and
sixty three soldiers you never asked about. There are mothers,
fathers, brothers, sisters, wives, sons, daughters, and those that
have offered these men to our country in sacrifice that deserve to

3
know the truth. To some of these soldiers, I have given my
promise to tell their story. I have never written a book nor do I
proclaim to know how. However, as I sit here and write this
passage, I have the names of so many of those ghosts that want to
help me share these words. I promise you, each one of you that
read this book will know when and where it pertains to you and
the soldier you offered to our country.
My wife, in her altruistic manner, invited me to walk away
from the many years I have spent healing from these wounds to
revisit the 70‟s in an effort to bring you what I remember. My
daughter cautioned me about writing this book and making it
factual, warning me of the possible legal and social repercussions.
So, any reference to actual persons or places documented in this
work is to be considered purely fictional and any resemblance to
any person living or dead is purely coincidental. Please again
note… to protect myself from any legal or social repercussions,
please take the contents of this book as pure unadulterated fiction.
Now that all the legal mumbo jumbo is out of the way, please read
this book with an open and accepting mind. Only you the reader
can decide in your own mind where I might cross the line between
fact and fiction. I pray that you understand that after the life I‟ve
led and at my age, I don‟t have the inclination or the energy to
fight our government or the courts over this manuscript.
I would apologize for the graphic language, but that‟s the way
it was. As my comrades-in-arms gallantly said so many times as
we would embark on a mission, “Fuck the consequences….”

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 Chapter 1
The Final Chapter….

I
t was a very hot and humid day in downtown Saigon. The
air was ripe with the buzz of the flies and the odor of
rotting meat. This section of Saigon was obviously the
home of the extremely poor. The ones so poor they would spend
their lives scurrying through the alleyways and piles of garbage
looking for that next meal in the form of a scrawny rat or other
vermin.
Those too old or those that had lost limbs during the war would
be squatting in typical fashion on the corners of the city begging
for any coin. The stench of human excrement and urine, from the
constant use of the streets as toilets, invaded the nostrils.
The city was still sleepy in that early morning of June 1973.
Just the occasional racing of a motor scooter along the dank and
dirty streets could be heard along with the sounds of gunshots and
whistling mortars in the distance. It sounded sometimes as if the
war had never really ended. I was feeling a bit drained from the
booze and prostitutes from the night before as I walked down the
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dirty street. Damn dogs everywhere. I thought these people were
supposed to be eating these nasty little flea infested mutts. I looked
down, saw the dog crap on my boots from the night before, and
cursed. Six days in this God forsaken place. I wondered how many
more days until I could finish this mission. They tell us there are
supposed to be about twelve hundred of these guys over here. This
damn sure is not the Saigon I remembered from 1972.
My bloodshot and aching eyes were searching for that sight
that has become so familiar in the past six days. My head pounded
and I cursed as I strained against the harsh morning light. I could
see him walking from the little shack that was covered in
camouflage green paint left over from the war, a roof made of tin,
and the sidewalk made from old cans pounded into the rich earth.
Neat little flowers growing along the edges of the old shack added
some life to this somewhat dreary little corner of the world.
He was a young man, maybe twenty-three years old. His deep
black skin, made darker by the Southeast Asian sun, glistened with
early morning sweat. His muscles rippled under the edges of his
shirt sleeves. It was obvious that for the past three years he has
been doing some very hard physical work. His childlike innocence
was evident in the careless saunter he had in such a recently war
torn city. He was whistling a tune that did not seem to be familiar,
I watched silently as he waved goodbye over his shoulder at a
young woman and her child as he started down the street. I could
see a small gold wedding band on his left ring finger.
The woman with the child, was barely in her twenties, yet had
the haggard look of one much older. The war had obviously
affected her greatly. Her dress was that of the old villagers on the

6
outskirts of Saigon. A simple material of old black parachute silk
held together by the buttons of worn out United States military
uniforms. It was evident the child was not his own, as the mixture
of Anglo French and Vietnamese in the young light skinned boy
was obvious. The young boy wore the short pants and a white
cotton shirt that were so common in the area. Like his mother, his
feet were bare.
I quietly walked down the street, being careful to keep myself
in the shadows so I would not be seen. I cursed as I stepped in
more dog shit. My temper was rising as the young AWOL soldier
walked past me. I thought of some poor son-of-a-bitch back home
in the world thinking this boy was either missing in action or a
prisoner of war. I was angry because he was making me do this
bullshit. “Halt,” I yelled. “Halt, I am Sgt. Young, Department of
the Air Force Special Operations.” I thought of yet another young
soldier that would not return home to his family in quite the way
they would want. For an instant, I felt the rush of adrenaline
coursing through my body and my nerve endings tingle with
knowing anticipation. “Halt,” I yelled again but this time not as
loud for I had already decided the fate of this encounter. “I am Sgt.
Young, Department of the Air Force Special Operations, halt or
I‟ll execute you where you stand.” A small knowing smile creased
my lips as I felt the raw heat of the hot Saigon wind and the
violent intensity of the quickly rising sun. The smell of death was
in the air as I gently squeezed the trigger of my AR-15. The round
struck him high in the forehead. I marveled, as I had so many
times before, at the intense impact and amount of blood and gray
matter that was contained in such a small area as the human head.

7
The wind blew a tiny spray of blood back towards my face and the
coppery taste of blood was now becoming rather familiar nectar to
my lips. I wondered if the taste of blood from a black man did
indeed taste the same as a white man.
I walked over to the body still doing its little chicken dance.
His feet were kicking a rapid tattoo. I looked down and I saw that
the young soldier was still alive. He was panting so hard, trying to
keep life within himself. Poor bastard didn‟t know he couldn‟t
think without a brain. I thought it was kind of like that bumblebee
that can‟t fly but does it anyway because he didn‟t know he
couldn‟t do it. With half of his head gone, he could still generate
tears as he looked up at me wondering what he had done wrong.
His black skin, wet with the mixture of blood and sweat, was
already beginning to be covered by flies. “There is going to be a
grand feast for the flies this morning if I don‟t hurry,” I thought to
myself.
As I glanced to the side, I could see the young boy with tears in
his eyes. The empty stare of contempt and hatred directed at me.
Behind him, his mother was holding his young shoulders trying to
give him her strength. I saw her whisper the words, “my
husband.” As I looked at the young soldier dying, I reached down,
opened his blood covered gauze shirt, and saw the dog tags issued
by the military still wrapped in tape to keep them from jingling
while in the bush. The pride of ownership of those tags was so
obvious, for he kept them clean and well maintained. Guess he
wanted to keep a little bit of home with him in this strange
country. His little chicken dance ended, his eyes filmed over and I
assumed he died as I tore those dog tags from his neck. I took the

8
dog tags from the chain, placed them in a little leather pouch along
with the others, and as I flung the chain in the weeds on the side of
the road, the little boy in his shorts and white shirt scurried over
like a little rat to pick it up. I read the dog tags of my encounter
number thirty-seven, Wilson, Marvin Lee, E-3, B positive,
Regular Army.
As I stood there and waited for the jeep to pick up the body, I
whispered quietly to myself, “How in the hell did I get here…”

9
 Chapter 2
An Age of Innocence….

I
t was early April 1971 in Bowie, Maryland. It is a small
but growing city in a quickly expanding megalopolis
filled with a myriad of frame homes, large stately maple
trees, acres of grass, an infinite amount of kids filling the
playgrounds, and the ever-expanding McDonald‟s Hamburger
restaurants. All the shopping malls were still the open-air type and
the new Hardee‟s Hamburgers was the place to hang out.
Saturday nights were always spent on Route 450, and after
filling up with gas at Don Golden‟s Shell, all the muscle cars
would go screaming up the hill to prove the power of their motors,
showing how much rubber they could burn from the rear tires. All
the younger kids with their newly issued drivers licenses would sit
leaning against those newly imported cheap little box-like cars
called Toyota or Honda, the cars they borrowed from their parents.
They would watch in awe, looking forward to the added
excitement of the cops showing up and chasing the hot rods. Every

10
Saturday night those guys ran their hot rods and GTO‟s, and I still
believe the cops never caught any of them.
It was still an age of innocence. Where among the worst we
had ever done was maybe have a beer or two, but never really got
drunk. Drugs, to us, were the type still contained in aspirin bottles.
It was a big deal when one girl got pregnant and had to go on
vacation to the special, “having a baby place.” I happily remember
the older guys talking about girls that really “did it” and really,
honestly and truly, got all the way naked.
We lived in a predominately white neighborhood where
everyone felt insulated from the outside world. Even though
Martin Luther King had become influential in the rest of the
world, or so we heard, we were still a divided and segregated city.
We even had one of them “niggers” drive down our street one day.
My daddy called the cops, and they beat the hell out of that nigger
and hauled him away.
The city, trying to be upper middle class, revolved itself around
the Bowie Country Club and the rivalry among the neighbors for
having the best looking yard. The neighbors greeted each other
with a smile in the morning and would tell the gossip about each
other at night. Evenings at home were quiet affairs filled with
books or the little black and white television. You knew who was
drinking or beating the hell out of their wives, for in this new kind
of neighborhood, the houses had been built with paper-thin walls
and were so close together you could hear everything.
President Kennedy had been killed just a mere seven years
earlier. The train, carrying the President‟s body, having stopped in
the old town of Bowie, with the President‟s wife Jackie and his

11
brother Bobby standing on the back of the caboose waving and
thanking the crowd for coming to show their respect, was still
fresh in the minds of everyone. It was one of those historical
moments. One of those moments that made our city famous even
if they did stop in the nigger part of town and we were forced to
breathe the same air they did if we wanted to see the coffin of the
President draped with the American flag.
Just three years prior to this warm April day, Dr. Martin Luther
King had been assassinated. Being for the most part a white
neighborhood, it was inconsequential to us. For neither the life nor
the death of Dr. King had any affect on our constricted and
methodical little lives. All of us considered ours an important little
city and had considered our niggers well trained and behaved.
Besides, we were special. We were situated right in-between
Baltimore and Washington D.C. and we had Walter Cronkite
coming into our homes, via that little black and white television,
giving us the story of the Vietnam War and telling us, “That‟s the
way it is…”
The Vietnam War was an important part of our lives at that
time. We had all seen, or knew older classmates that had gone off
to the war. None of us had really heard about any of those boys
from our fair little city being killed or that special kind of wound
called maimed. We did hear about one kid‟s father who was a
prisoner of war however. The kid always called his daddy a hero
and said that he was a real “POW.”
However, we sure watched that Vietnam war on television.
Each night we would sit down to dinner and Walter Cronkite
would appear on the news and tell us what was happening in this

12
land in Southeast Asia called Vietnam. Mr. Cronkite brought the
war into our living rooms in all its glory. If you were lucky enough
to know someone with a color television, you got a real special
view. I remember dad would tell us to hush up, that this war was
important and it would change the way each of us would live our
lives. What a great and mighty war it was and it was so exciting to
watch. We were able to see the big guns and explosions in what
Walter Cronkite called “living color.” We got to see helicopters
buzzing around, flying across the jungles and rice paddies with its
powerful guns shooting streaks of fire.
It gave us a chance to pretend. To imagine in our own minds
what it would be like to be a true hero. Sometimes it looked scary
when they showed all those big planes coming back and Walter
Cronkite saying they were filled with bodies of the guys that got
killed over there. All the guys I went to school with, and
especially me, wanted to go to Vietnam and be a hero. We wanted
to fight, to show that we were patriotic, and defend everybody
from communism. What we thought we really wanted to do, in our
own secret little minds, was to go kill us a gook.
However, here in Bowie, most everyone felt safe and insulated
from the rest of the world. Living so close to Washington D.C. and
Baltimore made us feel that our special little city was immune
from all the violence. The weather was really just starting to warm
up. The trees were starting to show their early foliage and the
crocuses were in full bloom. Besides, they were talking about love
and the peace movement that started in San Francisco. We even
saw a bunch of guys in school with real long hair. Vietnam really
was on the other side of the world….

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 Chapter 3
Almost Eighteen and Freedom….

I
was going to be eighteen in just about two months.
Unfortunately, I looked so much younger. Did I say young?
In reality, I was lucky if I passed for twelve and on a really
good day, someone might think I was fourteen. Just standing over
five feet tall and straining to pass a hundred pounds, did little to
placate my desire to appear to be a man. Being very introverted
and insecure about my height and never having once touched or
used a razor, I considered myself a social pariah. Thank god, I had
at least entered puberty. I had yet to have my first date and the
only girl I ever kissed was back in the third grade when a girl
showed me where her father had touched her and then she wanted
me to kiss her. At eighteen I didn‟t know how to kiss, so I know I
did it wrong back in the third grade. In general, I really hated life.
Trying to grow up and be like everybody else appeared to be
impossible.
I had been working since I was thirteen. My first job was over
in the town of Glen Burnie where my mother was banging some

14
jerk while my dad was at work. I remember the jerk‟s name was
Gene and he owned the biggest nursery in the state, or so he
claimed. I guess Gene felt guilty about banging my mother, so he
offered me a job. However, it also could have been that he was
scared I would tell my daddy about where my mother was
spending so much of her time. I guess I know now why she had to
pick some place twenty-five miles away. She wouldn‟t be caught
by my dad or become the gossip of our little city.
Consequently, on my first day of work I started to hitchhike the
twenty-five miles to get there. I had walked about six or seven
miles down the freeway when an old truck driver in his big shiny
rig pulled to the side of the road and picked me up. He was a
strange, unshaven, ragged-toothed, old codger. The stink of body
odor, cigarettes, and bad breath filled the air. It was as if this old
man had been caged in that truck and never got out. He gave a
nasty little toothless smile and asked where I was going. Instantly,
I was on guard and very apprehensive about telling him where I
had to go. I just told him I had to go down the road apiece. He
gunned the engine of that big rig and pulled onto the freeway
again.
I marveled as I watched him work the clutch and shift through
so many gears. I could feel the noise and vibration deep in my
chest. The old truck driver made small talk and then looked over
at me and asked if I liked girls. “Sure I do,” I cautiously said. He
gave me a look that set me instantly on guard as he asked me if I
ever had any pussy or if I knew what a real man‟s cock looked
like. I looked down, his right hand was reaching over toward me
as I yelled that he had just gone past the road where I had to get

15
off. He kept looking at me saying I could go a little further down
the road with him. He then asked if I wanted to stay and drive
around the country with him. I knew instinctively that things were
headed in a bad direction. I slammed my foot against the gearshift
lever, bent it, and knocked the truck out of gear. The old codger
tried to slug me as I quickly ducked. He was trying desperately to
stop that big rig and bring it back under control. As the truck
rumbled to a stop, I opened the big door, jumped out, and ran into
an old cornfield.
I was scared to death. My heart was beating so hard I thought it
would pop out of my chest. I looked at the cars whizzing by and
prayed that one would stop. I could see that nasty old codger
through the window waving his arms around and screaming to
himself or maybe screaming at the flies buzzing around his filthy
body. Soon I could hear the grinding of the gears as he pulled back
onto the road. I watched the cloud of dust emanate from the back
of his rig as he drove down the road. As I walked back to the
freeway, I realized it was the first time in my life I was glad my
daddy constantly beat the hell out of me. The old codger in the
truck was an easy dodge compared to my daddy.
I finally made it to that damn nursery and I figured I had
walked about fifteen miles just that one way. When I arrived, there
was only about a half hour of work left before they closed the
nursery for the day. I knew I was never going to come back to
work there and I was confident I wasn‟t about to get a paycheck so
I walked over to register, popped it open, and lifted out a fist full
of twenties. I reasoned that if he was banging my mother and
making my life more difficult, he owed it to me. I ended up

16
walking the full twenty-five miles back home and I swore as I
walked, I would never go that far from home again. Damn truck
driver had a way of screwing up a guy‟s self-confidence.
However, I soon remembered that sticking around home was at
times, even a worse ordeal because my dad being a violent
alcoholic, made life very difficult. My dad was a very proud lifer
in the Army. He was the kind that would volunteer to go anywhere
or do anything for his country. When he was home, most of his
waking hours were spent either at the local bar or out in the
gardens of our home tending to the plants. It was an escape for
him, anything to escape from the view or constant haranguing or
bitching of my mother. It was a strange, lonely, and empty feeling
not to have my dad at home. Yet I knew when he came home
there would be hell to pay and beatings to receive, for some
perceived transgression by my mother of what I had supposedly
done during the day. Many days were spent in my room waiting
for dad to come home so my mother could tell him what I had
done thus inspiring a beating. I knew my mother derived a sick
pleasure out of the beating I received. You could see the thin-
lipped smile on her face as the skin was being torn from my flesh.
I did realize in later years that if he was beating me, he wasn‟t
beating my mother, which I really believe she instigated out of her
perversity for violent behavior.
A week or so after the nursery incident, Don Golden gave me
my first real job pumping gas. What a fabulous job it was. Gas
was twenty-six cents a gallon, girls wore really short skirts, and I
loved to wash the windows of those cars. I felt that at thirteen, I
had the world in my pocket and that being paid a buck and a half

17
an hour, I had really become a part of the world. Only problem
was, I still looked like I was eight or nine years old. The girls
thought I was awfully damn cute as a little brother. The older
women in their twenties felt sorry for me and gave me great shows
by spreading their legs a little while wearing those mini skirts, as I
washed the front windshields of their cars. I lived for the moments
of seeing those white panties. One time, I even saw some real hair
peeking from beneath one of those skirts. I knew I had now
escaped into another world in which I felt safer. However, I was
always dragged back into reality.
On occasion, I would see my dad driving past the gas station
looking at me. He would never stop, yet he would always just
watch as he drove by. Over the coming months, my confidence
started to grow and I felt safe enough to experiment with various
aspects of what I considered the adult world. The ultimate thrill
was trying to get away with smoking. After weeks of coughing
and hacking, I was able to enjoy my first cigarette. It soon became
a habit that made me feel older and a part of the rest of the world.
Those twenty-five cent a pack cigarettes were a small price to pay
to look like a man.
I really got adventurous one day and stole a leather motorcycle
jacket from the local Pebbel‟s department store. What a fine jacket
it was, just like the one James Dean wore in “Rebel Without a
Cause.” I was learning to become a little more independent and
unlike physically, mentally and emotionally, I was growing.
Getting what would today be called, “street smarts.”
Then, as always, I would be jerked from my fantasy world back
into reality. I was leaning against a gas pump in my leather jacket,

18
jeans, and smoking a cigarette when I heard the squeal of tires. I
turned just in time to see my dad barreling down in his old dodge,
aimed right at me. I jumped out of the way and he crashed the car
through the gas pumps, missing me by inches. He jumped out of
the car, slammed me upside the head and asked me what the hell
kind of hoodlum I was for wearing a leather jacket. Guess he
never did see me smoking the cigarette. Gas was spewing
everywhere, along with the blood out of my torn open lips. Don
Golden, feeling sorry for me and trying real hard to be like a dad,
told my dad that he wouldn‟t have to pay for the damage if I
would be allowed to keep my job and on the condition that my dad
never comes on the property again.
I continued to work at Don Golden‟s for three more years
where in my formative years, Don and Shorty became my mentors
of sorts. They did their best to help me survive and grow and they
taught me that a good con could always get you money if you
really needed it. They tried to educate me on the ways of the
street, yet I remember that when it came down to it, I was always
looking to dad for real growth and guidance. Sure, there was high
school, but that was a completely different story….

19
 Chapter 4
High School graduation… What?
No graduation?

G
od, I really hated high school. Bowie Senior High was
where my brothers had attended high school before me
and had set the standard. Thankfully, it was not much
of a standard. I spent the first eleven years of my formal education
trying to figure out who or what I was. Having to wear glasses and
feeling that I looked like the proverbial dork, did nothing to help
in my education process. Trying my best to avoid that “dork” look,
I did not wear my glasses and consequently I could not see the
blackboard, let alone the teacher. Therefore, my days were filled
with imagination and lots of boredom inspired sleep.
Homework was inconsequential because I didn‟t know I had
any, for I couldn‟t see the blackboard without my glasses. To this
day, I could say that I really received no formal education.
Consequently, when it came to graduation time, I faced a real
dilemma. I had to have the credits to graduate and there were

20
certain classes that were mandatory. I felt like I pretty much was
able to cheat on my tests in most of my classes to receive, at the
very least, a minimal passing grade. I took Algebra for three solid
years and the most I accomplished was that I could spell Algebra.
Spanish language class was a further joke. Four years of Spanish
language class and I knew only one decent cuss word. More
importantly, I learned that the Spanish language textbook would
hold approximately seventy-five spring peeper frogs smashed
between its pages without leaking out the side of the book.
English was my only saving grace, for I loved to read. Reading
was my only escape from real life. Books were a place where I
could take my mind and go on any adventure or travel any
journey. I found that through books I could be anybody or do
anything. In addition, it helped that my English teacher, Ms. Bass,
wore an extremely short skirt and loved to sit at the front edge of
her desk. I had the occasion to notice that she preferred little pink
panties and that she shaved all the way up her very long legs. I can
assure you that I had never slept in any of her classes and that
appearing to be intelligent was very important to me. I actually
believe I learned something in her class. I had my first real crush
on an older woman. Thinking back, I remember thinking how
incredible she looked even though she was quite ancient as she
was getting close to thirty years old.
As the month of June and graduation day approached, I found
myself in quite a quandary. One teacher was not falling for my
stories and worse yet, it was impossible to get away with cheating
on tests in her class. She was what one would consider a sweet and
aged little old lady in her late sixties. She was of the way of

21
thinking that one would have to earn a passing grade to graduate
from her class. Failure to do so would lead to repeating her class
the following year. Something drastic and out of the ordinary
would have to be accomplished to bring about graduation day for
me.
Earlier in the year, I had gone down to the military recruiters to
find a way to escape from Bowie. As far as I knew, the only way
to really escape and find out who I was or what I could be would
be to start an absolute and complete new life, away from
everybody, everything, and anything that had any ties to my
childhood or time spent growing up. The escape from all the
narrow-minded influence of the east coast attitude was paramount
in my struggle to survive.
I avoided the Army recruiter, as I really did not want to be like
my father who was career Army. The Marine Corps was totally
out of the question for those boys looked like they were insane.
Even the littlest guy in school that went to Marine Corp basic
training at Camp Lejeune, came back thinking he could take on the
world, slit its throat, and then come back and eat it for breakfast.
Those boys were so crazy they were scary. They all walked around
outside of Bowie High in their uniforms with their little single
stripe indicating that they were privates or corporals, talking
about how they were about to ship off “to the „Nam, to kill some
gooks.” Yes, they were the envy of all. I figured I was too little to
become that kind of man and I really doubted that I could go
insane fast enough to pull the tough guy act together.
Join the Navy? No way, they were pussies. They never got to
see any action. All they did was float around on a boat and travel

22
to exotic ports of call. Actually, deep down it sounded pretty
tempting. However, I figured that being a virgin, stuck on a boat
for nine months out of the year, was not going to help turn me into
my preconceived notion that I would one day be a real stud with
the girls.
The only branch of the military service left was the Air Force.
Now in my innocent, inexperienced mind, the Air Force looked
pretty good. They had these really fancy looking blue uniforms,
got to fly jets and other groovy aircraft, and most of all would be
up in the air above all that fighting on the ground. I remember
seeing the war on the evening news where Walter Cronkite was
explaining how the jets and bombers would soar thousands of feet
above the jungle canopy. The pilots couldn‟t even see what they
were aiming at, and many times, they were even bombing our own
troops and didn‟t even know it.
Deep down my emotions were torn. I really wanted to be in the
jungle fighting the really dirty war, yet I had never been able to
test myself to see how I would react in a dangerous situation. In
many of the war movies I watched about World War I and World
War II, they always showed a guy that froze up, ran, or otherwise
disgraced himself or his military unit. I was so afraid of being
labeled a disgrace or a “chicken.” Yes, the Air Force was looking
very tempting.
So, one early Saturday morning in mid April of 1971, I went
down to the Air Force Recruiter, took the test, passed, and signed
the military agreement that bound me to the United States Air
Force for four years. I would start basic training on July 6, 1971. I
was even told that the results of my test scores made me eligible to

23
be an Air Traffic Controller where I would have the responsibility
to direct hundreds of planes in the air. I could not comprehend that
the recruiter believed I was responsible enough for such an
important job. On the other hand, it was all under the condition
that I would graduate high school that June.
In less than six hours, one man, an Air Force Recruiter, had
changed my life completely. I felt a raw, new power and energy.
The recruiter told me that soon I be would part of a very large and
elite family. A family of thousands of men and women that had
the same dreams and ideals I had. I would belong to a family of
brave men and women, where all the members think as one mind,
one heart, and one soul. The recruiter explained that this new
family was the smartest of all the military branches. The Air Force
concept depended more on brains than brawn. That theory
sounded excellent to me, for I had no brawn. But of course, it
would be less than a year before I learned that this recruiter had a
somewhat vivid imagination.
Suddenly, for the first time in twelve years, school became
very important to me. The realization that I could actually escape
from Bowie and the life of mental and emotional abuse that I was
living was within grasp. The fear of going home and telling my
parents that I joined the Air Force was non-existent. In my mind, I
thought that if they gave me a hard time or used the joining of the
military as an excuse to again beat the hell out of me, my new
family that I was about to join would come in and bomb the hell
out of them. For one of the first times in my life I felt no fear and
even lit up a cigarette on the way back home not even caring if I
smelled like cigarette smoke when I walked in the front door.

24
 I did have one fear though, that little old lady who taught my
“Problems of Democracy” class. I knew she could and would fail
me for my grades in her class thus screwing up my entire life.
With less than eight weeks of school until graduation, I
approached my classes with a new found vigor. That lasted about a
week, because I was so far behind from not listening or paying
attention that I was completely lost. I tried to put on the
impression that I did care about what I was learning. I was hoping
to, at the very least, fool some of the teachers. During my final
week of school, before the final exams, I did everything in my
power to build cheat sheets, get answers to the tests, and insure
that I could see the test papers of the kids I perceived as much
more intelligent than I. For the most part, I was stuck on my own
for I had failed in these attempts. I went to all my teachers, many
of who were aware of my home life, and begged leniency and
understanding.
The test scores did come out with two days left of school and I
was very surprised that by some freak of nature I did pass all my
tests, albeit barely, and that I was on my way to graduation. The
only snag was my “Problems of Democracy” class where the
damned little old lady teacher proudly announced to all the
students that everyone had passed the test except for me. I was not
shocked that I failed, but I believe that at that moment an
unparalleled level of humility was etched into my heart forever.
For as I looked around the classroom, all eyes were burning into
me.
I ran from the classroom with tears stinging my eyes, the
emotions of rage, hurt, and humiliation coursing through my veins.

25
I felt the electricity of the ability to commit murder rush through
me and felt the knowledge of calculation of that same act to be
justified in my mind. It screamed through my mind that failing that
class would mean I would have to live another year of life like the
one I had just lived. The instant physical illness caused by the
thoughts of another year of abuse, was totally unacceptable and ate
at my heart and energy. I knew at that moment, the little old lady
was going to die that very afternoon.
I sat in wait outside the school, watching that little old lady
through the classroom window. I felt the thin blade of the knife
digging into the fabric of my jeans as I sat there and watched the
students come into the classroom and say goodbye to her, thanking
her for the year of education. The students were bringing that
nasty old bitch presents and offering her little pecks of love on the
cheek and wishing her well and accepting well wishes in return. I
had a get-well wish waiting for that old biddy. This wish would be
one she would remember for the rest of her life. Even though deep
inside, I felt it was a rather short life she was going to have.
As the last student left, I crept around to the front door of the
classroom and saw that nasty old bitch of a teacher sitting at her
desk, her head in her hands and tears pouring from her eyes. I
could hear the sobbing as I crept up with the knife clenched in my
fist behind my back. I stopped and stared as I realized that she was
almost human. Maybe she would understand reason. If I explained
especially carefully and honestly, what my heart was feeling and
that this one chance of a life with the Air Force was my only
saving grace, she might understand. I tucked the knife in my back
pocket and quietly and gently approached my teacher. I asked if

26
she was okay and inquired as to what I could do to alleviate her
tears. She explained that she was on the verge of retirement and
that she had spent the better part of forty years molding young
minds and that she was going to miss her students. I tried to tell
her I appreciated everything she tried to do for me in the last year.
I apologized for the lack of respect I had shown her in the last year
trying to explain that I was just barely able to hold on mentally
with the life I was leading. The old teacher, looking tired and
forlorn, looked up at me with the tears having dried in her eyes.
She softly said, “You are a lazy, inconsiderate hoodlum and thank
God I will be retired and will not have to put up with the likes of
you next year. You are a failure and will be one for the rest of your
damnable little life.” She further implied I would unquestionably
be in high school well into my twenties.
I smiled at this poor little old lady for I knew I had the ace in
the hole. I could see the report cards sitting on her desk and I
could see mine with the grade not yet filled in for the last quarter. I
very gently reached over to little old bitch‟s hair, yanked it back
exposing her throat, and at the same time whipped out my knife
and held it against her wrinkled skin. I felt the pulsing of her veins
and I could see terror and tears fill her eyes. I felt a new and
exciting power. I held this nasty little woman‟s life in my hands
and it was mine to do with as I wished. With this new found power
came a wonderful burst of intelligence. I explained very carefully
to my dear old teacher that if I didn‟t pass, I would come back
next year. I would still not pay attention in any classes. Therefore,
it would also provide me the opportunity to come back, cruise her
neighborhood, find her, and slit her throat like a chicken. Then,

27
seeing how I would have a whole year to do nothing, I would hunt
down her children and kill them one by one and then I would piss
on her husband‟s grave. I slammed her head forward and with bits
of old fine gray hair stuck to the sweat of my hand, and in my
meanest little squeaky voice I told her that she did not want to
fuck with me nor did she ever want me to have an excuse to come
back.
I strode from the classroom feeling all-powerful never once
considering she might call the police, for in the seventies,
classroom violence was unheard of. I was not surprised when two
days later my report card came in the mail; I had passed my
Problems of Democracy class, albeit it was with the next highest
grade from failure. She had maintained her own dignity even
through the course of my threats and coercion. I never did attend
my high school graduation ceremony for the humiliation still ran
deep within me. However, a new life is on the horizon….

28
 Chapter 5
Basic Training. Damn, life is different….

“H
up, two, threep, four…. A-10 A-10 flying
high, drop that napalm from the sky. See
those kids down by the river? Drop some
napalm and watch them quiver.” The echoes of cadence coming
from what looked like hundreds of Air Force recruits marching in
unison on the base Parade Field infiltrated our bus as we pulled
through the gates of Lackland Air Force Base outside of San
Antonio, Texas on that hot and humid July morning. We all
strained to look out the windows on the side of the military bus
trying to get a glimpse of what our next six weeks of Air Force
basic training would be like. We all laughed as we observed
hundreds of men and woman marching along like good little
soldiers wearing green uniforms and ugly little pith helmets that
made them look like they were on safari in Africa or some exotic
jungle.
One of the guys on the bus indicated that all these people
marching must be the idiots or the ones that weren‟t smart enough
29
to be Air Force soldiers because his recruiter told him he would be
wearing a crisp, clean, and sharp blue uniform. We all shook our
heads in agreement, for we all heard the same story, so we leaned
out the windows of the bus yelling to the recruits accusing them of
being rejects, retards or sissies. We just kept laughing as the bus
pulled to a stop, because we knew we were never going to have to
wear that kind of uniform. We were going to be bona fide United
States Air Force soldiers, the smart and the elite. I was even
promised by my recruiter that when I finished basic training I
would be attending school to become an Air Traffic Controller.
As we climbed off the bus, I noticed there were men and
women with me that must have been from all over the nation.
Some of the guys had really long hair that extended past their
shoulders. It appeared that most of the guys arrived with skinny
little bodies and pasty skin, while just a very few others had deep
rich tans and exhibited some muscle tone. Some of the new
recruits wore suits, while others wore clothes that had holes in
them or were heavily patched. There were eleven women that rode
on the bus with us and one of them looked like she was more of a
man then I ever would be. And to be damned, there were a whole
bunch of those niggers here also. Oh yes, we were a very diverse
bunch. Nevertheless, we all had that smile and look of anxious
anticipation in our eyes.
We stood there in a group laughing, joking, smoking, and
generally playing around. I noticed a short, stocky, and mean
looking man wearing a crisp tan uniform and a Smokey the Bear
hat break away from a group of those dumb recruits in green
uniforms and move toward us. My heart started to skip beats,

30
beads of sweat grew upon my brow and the air temperature
seemed to go up twenty degrees. I noticed a tight grin on this
man‟s face and that his stride, making him appear much taller than
his actual five and a half foot frame, was perfectly erect as he
strode nearer. As he got closer, I could not help but think this
man, with a whole lot of stripes on the arm of his uniform, was
angry at the world.
The soldier in the Smokey the Bear hat walked up behind
James, one of the guys with long hair, and rather vicariously
inquired of him, “What are you? One of those sissies, queers, or
are you one of those god damned long hair hippie motherfuckers?
Answer me boy,” he yelled. James turned around, looked at this
soldier with all the stripes, sniffed the air and asked, “What are
you, crazy or do you just want your ass kicked?” We all wondered
who in the hell this little guy with the uniform and all the stripes
was, asking if James was a queer or not? The air rumbled and it
felt as if the ground was shaking as this soldier screamed into
James‟ face, “What are you sniffing at you little candy ass? You
like the smell of me you little faggot?” This soldier, who we later
learned was Technical Sergeant Porter, stridently yelled to all of
us, “I am now your mommy, your daddy, you girlfriend, and your
miserable, on the rag wife. I am the personal best friend of God, so
you better give your lives to God because your sorry asses now
belong to me.” I do believe at this point, life as I had known it,
really had changed for good. I didn‟t know whether to fear the
change or embrace it. Only time would tell.
TSGT Porter yelled at us to grab our useless civilian crap and
either drag it with us or throw it into the dumpster for we would

31
never see civilian clothes again. One of the little pasty guys with
us barely whispered, “That asshole can kiss my ass, who does he
think he is?” TSGT Porter slowly turned around and yelled, “Boy,
this is just the start of the worst four years of your miserable little
life. After I am through with you, your momma ain‟t even going to
recognize your sorry ass. Now all of you get your god damned
sorry asses in a straight line and let me see what kind of garbage
those damn recruiters sent me.”
We all slowly lined up in a ragged fashion, dragging suitcases,
or in some cases paper grocery bags filled with clothes behind us.
TSGT Porter yelled, “Come on ladies, we don‟t have all damn
day. Let‟s go… let‟s go.” There was raw tension in the air and a
new and never before felt fear and excitement filled my heart. All
of a sudden, the sounds of the other recruits I heard in the
background singing cadence as we drove up in the bus were mute.
My entire world revolved around TSGT Porter and his words. I
knew that this was a life defining moment.
Changes in life began immediately and of course, I came with
no self-preparedness. As TSGT Porter had all of us line up, we
were told that what we had believed were our supposed
constitutional rights were now non-existent. There would be no
opportunity to express opinion, freedom of thought, emotion, or
any type of outward self-expression. TSGT Porter further
explained that we would have no access to telephones or any kind
of communication, for he didn‟t want us calling home and telling
our mommies to come pick us up for we were emphatically his for
the next six weeks.

32
 As I gazed at the faces of my fellow recruits, I could see the
mental and emotional confusion that was clouding their faces. We
were very strictly warned against uttering even the slightest word.
Momentarily, each of learned that any emotional outburst, no
matter how subtle, would be met with intense ridicule as TSGT
Porter, who informed us that he was our drill instructor, and that
any question would be addressed to him as, “Drill instructor,
request permission to speak.” One of the female recruits
whimpered a little cry and a tear came to her eye. TSGT Porter
came right up to her face, placed his nose within a half inch of her
nose and screamed into her face, “What‟s wrong with you? You
got your goddamn tampon stuck up your ass instead of your
pussy? You had better pull it out because I ain‟t going to stand
here and listen to your god damn sniveling and whining. Now, all
of you get your sorry little asses moving and I‟m going to show
you where you‟re going to live.”
A somber mood filled the air as the drill instructor stood and
glared at us. We walked in line to a two story wooden structure
that was freshly painted white and the grounds around the building
were immaculate. The smell of fresh mown grass hung in the air.
It had been cut to perfection and there was nary a blade out of
order. The edges of the grass were trimmed to perfection and the
gravel walks were completely level and free of any weeds. As we
entered the building, our home for the next thirty days, we could
see a long dormitory type room with double stacked single size
beds called bunks with wafer thin mattresses lining each side of
the room. In front of the bunks were gray boxes that were called
footlockers. It was where we would be required to keep everything

33
we owned. The most amazing sight in the mammoth room was the
corridor, which had a mirror sheen to it that reflected the bunks,
the walls, and even the windows. There wasn‟t the slightest speck
of dust on any part of the floor. I was thinking of what marvelous
maid service they have here in this building called the barracks.
Our last names were called in alphabetical order and mine
being at the end, I knew from prior experience that I would end up
with the crap. As the names were called, bunks were assigned
starting with those bunks closest to the bathrooms. As my name
came, I found that I was at the very end of the barracks with a
window next to my bunk. I started to believe that as my life was
changing, so was my luck. I figured that if sixty guys were taking
a shit, that end of the barracks would get rather vile very quickly.
One of the new recruits started to walk toward his assigned
bunk when there was a remarkable roar as TSGT Porter
vociferated, “who in the hell do you think you are, walking on my
damn floor boy? Did I tell you to walk on my floor? Drop down
and give me fifty.” The new recruit whimpered, “I don‟t have fifty
dollars drill sergeant.” TSGT Porter yelled, “Did I tell you to give
me fifty dollars you dumb shit? Drop down and give me fifty
pushups.” TSGT Porter dropped down on his haunches. As the
new recruit attempted to do his required fifty pushups and as the
recruit strained on his sixteenth pushup TSGT Porter quietly said
into his ear, “You know those little gooks over there in the Nam
are going to love your candy ass. Hell boy, in hand-to-hand
combat you‟re going to be dead real quick. They are going to take
a knife and slice right up your gizzard and you ain‟t going to be
able to stop him. Now get up and get those damn shoes off and get

34
over to that bunk and start making it so tight I can bounce a
quarter off of it.” As TSGT Porter looked over all of us, he gently
intoned, “You boys are here to learn how to stay alive in Vietnam
and it is my job to teach you how to come home again. A great
many of you won‟t be coming back from the Nam and I know I
should just ship your sorry little asses home but they just won‟t let
me. So ladies, for the next six weeks you learn, you learn real
good.” TSGT Porter strode from the room with a very somber look
on his face and a far away look in his eyes. I knew intuitively that
this man had seen war, lots of war.
We removed our shoes as we headed toward our assigned
bunks. I had a general idea of how to make the bunk for my father,
being prior Army, had insisted that I make my own bed as a child
that way each morning. The other recruits gathered around me as I
showed them how to pull the sheets tight and do the forty-five
degree folds of hospital corners for the sheets. For a few moments,
I reflected on the harshness and brusqueness of my father and
saying thankful little prayers of the advanced training, he had
inadvertently given me. I already felt a step ahead of the rest of the
recruits. As each one of the recruits finished we each just stood by
our own bed. We were afraid to move in the room for each of us
felt that the consequences could be severe if we were in the wrong
spot perceived by the drill sergeant upon his return. One of the
bolder recruits decided he would lie on his bed and wait for the
inevitable return of the sergeant. As we stood there milling around
by our respective bunks, we looked up and saw the sergeant
standing at the door with his hands on his hips and a stern look on
his face. As the sergeant saw the recruit lying on his bunk, he put

35
his finger to his lips to usher silence from us and walked quietly
and slowly up to the occupied bunk where the recruit had in fact
fallen asleep. We all tittered with silent laughter. It was the first
real smiles that crossed our faces since we had arrived, as the
sergeant stood there with his hands on his hips and bellowed, “Get
your ass out of my bunk sleeping beauty.” It was the first time in
my life that I had really truly seen a human body rise up from a
flat surface about five inches just on pure muscle twitch reaction
and adrenaline. It would be a couple of years later when I learned
the mechanics of such a reaction and how it would serve me.
TSGT Porter had us all stand at an irregular fashion of attention at
the head of our bunks where he instilled a lecture on our expected
behavior and our future training. TSGT Porter then threw a box of
toothbrushes onto the floor and instructed each one of us to pick
them up. TSGT Porter smiled as he said, “Ladies, you have turned
this place into a dump and I want it clean. You have four hours to
get this place clean. The right side of the room will clean the
latrines and the left side will clean this dormitory. And,” he added
with a quiet smirk, “if you have it clean I might let you eat
tonight.” One of the recruits inquired as to the location of the
mops and buckets and TSGT Porter replied with a wide grin,
“Why they are in your hands, now get moving and I want it to
shine.” We each looked down to the toothbrushes in our hands and
thought of the long night ahead.

36
 Chapter 6
Lackland AFB… the best training in the
World….

L
ackland Air Force Base was established on June 26,
1942, when the War Department separated part of
Kelly Field and named it San Antonio Aviation
Cadet Center to support the war effort. Coupled with numerous
name changes, a significant identity crisis emerged for base
personnel in 1947 when it was renamed Lackland Air Force Base.
The honor of being titled "Gateway to the Air Force" was secured.
Lackland established itself as a cohesive training base and
formalized training evolved to support the Air Force mission “To
Fly, To Fight, To Win." Lackland AFB had a mission statement,
which was drilled into the heads of each recruit, “That the mission
focuses on training one to become a highly respected airman in the
world‟s greatest Air Force. The mission of basic military training
is to transform civilian recruits into disciplined, dedicated,

37
physically fit warriors ready to serve in the United States Air
Force.”
Lackland Air Force Base was a proud old airbase. As I walked
the grounds under the setting sun, feeling the blisters on my
fingers from hours of using the toothbrush and bucket of soapy
water on the barracks linoleum floor, I observed the old buildings
well maintained to their original lustre of the 1940‟s. I wondered
of the many Airman that had come before me. I knew as I walked
the sacred grounds that my main goal for joining the Air Force
was to go to Vietnam. It was an instinctive part inside of me that
made me so powerfully believe that the achievement of my
character, be it moral or immoral, was tied to the belief that I must
do my part in Vietnam to become a true American patriot. I
wondered of the men and woman that had come here before me.
How many had come back alive from World War II, Korea,
Vietnam, or other wars we had been involved? What was each of
these people doing with their lives today? Had this training really
made a significant difference in each of their lives? I knew at that
moment that even though I had yet to give my heart to God, I had
given it to the United States Air Force.
I walked over to a very old oak tree with its limbs reaching far
into the sky and its leaves providing a huge and luxurious canopy
of shade. I sat beneath this old tree leaning against the course bark
and felt its strength of age and history pushing into my back. The
warm early evening breeze blew gently across my face with a hint
of the sweet smell of jasmine. As I sat there absorbing the tree‟s
energy I felt strange emotions coursing through my body. A great
indescribable emotion of peace and utter contentment that I have

38
never felt before completely enveloped me, yet at the same time
trepidation for the unknown and absolute joy at the chance to
experience the same. For a moment, I felt very small, empty and
lonely for this life was so unfamiliar to me. I had one family now
and I would give my life to it in thanks.
Lost in emotion of the moment, I felt a tear at the edge of my
eye and as I wiped it, I heard this soft voice at the edge of my ear.
“Are you in dream land little boy? Did you lose your mommy
somewhere? Are you dreaming of being an Airman little boy?”
The voice intensity increased as I heard, “Get your ass up, who in
the hell told you to leave the barracks?” I jumped to my feet and
tried my best to do a version of standing at attention screaming,
“Nobody drill sergeant.” The drill sergeant screamed back at me,
“Who the hell is nobody? I don‟t know any Sgt. Nobody. You
better take this Sgt. Nobody with you and start running around that
parade field until I tell you to stop.” I ran to the field and started
running just as the sun started to set over that old oak tree. Hours
passed and I ran, thinking that for my first day in training I had
really screwed up. Sweat, which had been pouring from me, had
soaked through my clothes, with the feel of the chill of the night
air against my body I started to shiver. As I ran, the full moon high
in the night sky, I could see from the corner of my eye, TSGT
Porter standing across the field under a dim lamp from the
barracks, with his arms folded across his chest watching me.
As I ran past a long shadow from the bleachers lining the field,
I heard a whisper coming from deep within the shadows. “Run
faster, run faster and your body heat will dry your clothes and
you‟ll warm up.” I could see the gleam of chrome insignias

39
indicating that this voice in the shadows was that of an Air Force
Officer. I picked up my pace and started to wave my arms to
increase circulation. I ran and I ran hard. As I ran by TSGT Porter
he chided in an amused voice, “What, you trying to be Tinker Bell
now?” “No drill Sergeant,” I intoned. “Why you flapping those
arms boy?” he asked. “Trying to keep warm drill Sergeant,” I shot
back. “Well, come on Tinker Bell, it‟s time for you to hit the
rack.” he said. I stopped running, breathing hard and sweat again
pouring off me. We walked up to the barracks with TSGT Porter
behind me saying, “You done good boy, you done real good,” and
he gently put his hand on my shoulder and gave a slight squeeze.
Never before this moment had I ever felt so completely proud. I
fought with every fiber in me to keep my emotions in check. I
could feel the swell of my chest expand with the pride felt, the
moistness of tears trying to escape from my eyes, and a hidden
smile that spread from ear to ear on my face. As I entered the
barracks with TSGT Porter behind me, I looked up at the wall
clock and saw that I had been running for nine hours. It was three
o‟clock in the morning. I heard the booming voice behind me yell,
“Get your ass in that bunk because you are getting up at zero four
hundred hours.” I smiled as I stripped down to my underwear and
climbed into the bunk. I felt as if I had found a home where there
was honesty, openness, affection, and discipline tendered with
compassion. It was a home, where it appeared, that someone cared
about me as an individual. It was a place where my thoughts and
concerns mattered and would make a difference. In my five foot
one inch, ninety-five pound frame, I felt like a giant today.

40
 “Get those sorry butts out of those bunks. Let‟s go children,
move it, move it, move it,” was the yell from TSGT Porter as he
stood there with his hands on his hips and his legs spread at the
front of the dormitory. We all moaned at the early hour, yet I felt
an excitement at the coming day. We would all be getting our
crisp blue uniforms today. As we all clambered down the steps to
the front of the dormitory and lined up in ragged fashion, TSGT
Porter appeared and belittled us for our haphazard attempt to get
into military formation. With a few words and instruction, he had
us lined up in three lines and I believed he had us looking pretty
good. “Right face,” TSGT Porter ordered. Most of us turned to
the right but a few of the recruits turned to the left, where TSGT
Porter appeared, grabbed the crotch of one recruit and yelled,
“You beat your meat with your right hand, don‟t you?” “Yes drill
sergeant,” the recruit whimpered. “Then I sure hope you ladies
remember which way is to the right next time I say right face,”
TSGT Porter yelled. “Otherwise I am going to assume you are
faggots that don‟t beat your meat and I damn sure don‟t want
faggots in my United States Air Force.” TSGT Porter again yelled,
“Right face, forward march.” We all turned to the right and began
our march. “Left, right, left, right, give it your left, your right, your
left, your right,” was the sound of cadence ringing in our ears as
we marched toward the dining hall.
As we approached, I marvelled at its size. It looked as though it
were the size of a small stadium and there were hundreds of
recruits in formation waiting to enter for breakfast. As our group
arrived, we heard stifled laughter and snickers from all those
recruits in green uniforms and freshly shaved heads. I wondered

41
why we had to eat with the retards in green uniforms. Thinking it
must be that we were still in civilian clothes and still had long hair,
we were not ready to be identified with the normal recruits yet. As
we entered the cavernous dining hall, there appeared to be almost
a thousand recruits sitting and eating in absolute silence. The only
sounds were that of new fabric rubbing against itself, metal
utensils scraping against plates, and the occasional cough or
clearing of the throat. Young drill instructors with just three or
four stripes on their sleeves and Smokey the Bear hats squarely on
their heads, stood with hand on hips and legs spread keeping an
eye out for even the slightest hint of mischievousness. Older drill
instructors with many stripes on their sleeves sat at tables away
from the recruits where they exchanged trivial banter. As our line
moved forward, I was amazed at the amount of food offered. More
food than I had ever seen in one place. There were all types of
fabulous foods. From bacon and eggs, to pancakes and French
toast, to any type of fruit you could imagine. I remembered with a
smile, the Air Force recruiter telling me I would eat better than I
ever had in my life. Again, my recruiter never lied. As we moved
forward in the line picking and choosing our food we turned
toward a loud commotion coming from the edge of the dining hall
next to a small garbage container. We saw a young recruit, which
had just thrown some food in the trash can, with fear in his eyes as
one of the young drill sergeants was yelling at him. “What the hell
are you doing with my food?” the drill sergeant bellowed. “Do you
know that my tax paying dollars are feeding your sorry ass and
you‟re just throwing it away? Do you like throwing my money
away? Are you reaching into my pocket and taking my money out

42
of my pocket? Do you know there are soldiers on the line in
Vietnam that would give anything for that egg you just threw in
the trash?” the young drill sergeant belittled him. “No drill
sergeant,” the young recruit cried. “Stop your whining and be a
man” drummed the drill sergeant. “Yes drill sergeant,” screeched
the recruit in his young voice. “Now get that egg out of there and
you put it in your pocket because I want to see you eat that
tomorrow morning for breakfast,” stated the drill sergeant. The
recruit quietly and quickly retrieved the scrambled egg from the
trashcan and put it into his pocket. We turned back around in line
and declined the rather large portions of food that were being
offered by the food servers.
As we came out of the dining hall, after finding we had less
than ten minutes to complete our breakfast, we excitedly lined up
into formation and began our march to the uniform issue building.
The building was a long low narrow building with a barn type
door at each end. Slightly across from the farther barn type door
stood another much smaller building with the same type of doors.
We joked that it looked like we were lining up as they did in Nazi,
Germany to be gassed. As we entered the building, each of us
could see nothing but miles of green fabric piled on counter tops.
“Oh shit,” I thought. “Their going to give us green uniforms, they
think we came in on the retard bus.” “What‟s your shirt size?” the
bored soldier intoned. “But… but,” I tried to explain. “Don‟t but
me soldier, what‟s your shirt size?” he repeated in an uninterested
tone. “I don‟t know,” I replied. “Here this should fit,” he said as he
threw me a hand full of green shirts. “Now move it down the line,”
he yelled. Each of us moved down the line and were handed

43
various uniform items from socks, underwear, fatigue jackets,
boots, and a duffle bag. At the end of the line, our bodies were
measured and numbers were called out and as we came around a
corner, we were handed those prized blue uniforms with sharp
caps wrapped in plastic. The young soldier, issuing the blue
uniforms admonished us not to break the seal on the plastic covers
before we were instructed or we would never be able to graduate
from basic training. We used the duffel bag to pack all of our
uniforms in and as we exited the building and approached the next
building, it was with a light heart understanding why I had seen so
many green uniforms and hardly any blue ones. The green ones
were so we wouldn‟t get our pretty blue ones dirty. We entered the
smaller building and saw a long row of barber chairs down each
side of the room. Each new recruit sat in the chair and within
twenty seconds, with the practiced ease of the barber, the identity,
and personality of each recruit was removed along with the hair
that was shaven within an eighth of an inch of his scalp.
“Gentlemen, welcome to Lackland Air Force Base,” the
instructor yelled. “I, along with many other instructors are here to
teach you to become the pride of this man‟s Air Force. You will
learn and you will succeed. A few of you will not want to. You
that do not, we will send home with a dishonorable discharge.
Your basic training was designed to last for six weeks,” he said.
“With the escalation of the conflict in Vietnam and the need for
fresh new bodies in the „Nam, your training time has been reduced
to twenty-four days. So gentlemen, I have twenty-four days to get
you ready to go to Vietnam and make sure you are also able to
come back, so we don‟t have any time for any god damned games

44
or excuses,” he drilled. “Now get „em up and move „em out,” the
drill sergeant ordered.
For the next twenty-four days, we learned about Air Force core
value, military procedure and structure, weapons, and self-
reliance. The training, other than military procedure, appeared to
be based on common sense and really was relatively simple. It was
a daily grind of waking up at four in the morning and praying to be
allowed to sleep by eight o‟clock at night. However, it was worth
it, for I would do anything, anything at all to go and be a part of
the adventure of Vietnam.
The very typical and structured days seemed to pass slowly, for
they were all insipidly the same. We would rise each morning at
four, we would have breakfast, followed by calisthenics for an
hour and then off to classes in military disciplines.
The most exciting part of each training day was when we
would train on the handling and use of the M-16 rifle. The
manufacturer, Colt Manufacturing, described the M-16, as a 5.56
millimeter, lightweight, gas operated, air cooled, magazine-fed
rifle. Capable of semi-automatic and automatic fire with a
maximum range of 2,653 meters, an effective area target of 800
meters, 550 meters for a point target and a maximum rate of fire of
650-700 rounds per minute on full automatic fire, designed to kill
man. My not knowing what the manufacturer‟s nomenclature of
this weapon is did not preclude me from becoming an expert. With
targets set up at 1,000 yards, I effectively proved that this M-16
rifle had in fact an accurate and effective range up to 915 meters.
For once in my life, I was proudly setting the standard.

45
 Each day became more boring with the classroom study and
each of us was looking forward to graduation when we could
become part of the real Air Force. As difficult as high school was,
military based studies came easy for me. I found it amazing as
time went by, that our squadron that had started out with sixty-
three new recruits had dwindled down to forty-five. Of the eleven
women that started, eight were left. Even some of those bronzed
muscle guys were gone. As we were standing around, using our
cigarette break for its maximum effectiveness, we discussed the
loss of so many recruits. Each of us was wondering if we could
make it to the end of the training. In my heart there was no doubt
that I could make it to the end. As each day progressed, I found
that I was becoming more indebted to this new found family that
was offering me the rarely before felt sense of responsibility
tendered with reward. “You sound like a bunch of old fish wives
gossiping,” came from TSGT Porter as he walked up behind us.
“You don‟t worry about why the others didn‟t make it, you
concentrate on yourselves.” “But, but…?” inquired one of the
recruits. “Don‟t but me boy. My job is to give you a fighting
chance to get back from the „Nam. If those other recruits would
have stayed in this training, I could god damn guarantee you they
would have come back from the „Nam in body bags. I just know
too many of my boys that had to go and come back to their
mothers that way, and I am sick of it. God damn war,” the drill
sergeant muttered.
The following weeks passed uneventfully with each of us
finding new found confidence in every aspect of our lives. The
incipient training had started us on a path that we found was

46
invaluable in the adjustment of our character and the ability to find
our places in this world.
Graduation day did finally come and we scrambled to the
bulletin boards to see the orders for our new base assignments.
You could here the cheers and the moans as each recruit found his
name on the long list. One airman turned with terror in his eyes
and cried, “They are sending me to Vietnam. I have to report to
Travis AFB for the flight in twenty-four hours.” I found my name
on the long list and saw that it was Bergstrom AFB in Austin,
Texas. “Christ,” I yelled. “I can‟t even get the fuck out of Texas.”
I reported to my drill sergeant bemoaning my orders to
Bergstrom Air Force Base, rather than Vietnam. TSGT Porter said,
“Airman Young, you are a damn fine soldier and there are bigger
plans for you. I also have to tell you that you will not become an
Air Traffic Controller. You‟ve been requested by higher powers to
be assigned to Bergstrom AFB, where you are going to get on the
job training to learn to become a cop.” Oh hell, I thought. My
recruiter did lie to me. Not only was I not going to Vietnam, I was
also going to become a damn cop. And… who in the hell screwed
up my Vietnam plans and requested my attendance at Bergstrom?

47
 Chapter 7
Bergstrom AFB, it isn’t basic training
anymore….

I
arrived at Bergstrom AFB, in mid afternoon with the
August sun high in the sky, just barely two hours after I
had graduated from basic training. I felt deja-vu looking
out the window of the military bus that was bringing me to this
assignment and this new world. As the bus passed through the
front gate I saw the Security Policeman, in a blue uniform having
a single stripe on his arm like mine, wave us through with a smart
salute. The very different atmosphere that was projected from the
grounds and low buildings of this base impressed me. Everything
was clean and precise with a military bearing about it. It was so
strange to see people walking about with the obvious military
haircut, yet being dressed in civilian clothes. I felt for a moment
that I had not seen blue jeans in years. In the distance I could hear
the roar of the F-15 jet engines and could just barely detect, a
peculiar smell, which I would eventually learn, was the smell of

48
JP4 jet fuel lingering hotly in the air. As I pushed my nose against
the window and looked up, I could see a group of jets flying in
formation high up in the sky. “Now this,” I whispered to myself,
“is the United States Air Force.”
I clambered off the bus dragging everything I owned in the
green duffle bag. The bus driver saying, “I believe this is what you
are looking for,” pointing me to a building with a wide and crisply
painted sign that said, “Bergstrom AFB, 67th Security Police
Squadron,” with the image of a silver Security Police badge
painted to one side. I lifted my duffle bag over my shoulder,
opened the door, and walked into a room where there was that
same shade of green that I had seen painted on the walls so many
times at Lackland AFB. I wondered for a moment if somehow the
government was getting a kickback from some paint company for
taking this drab and dreary looking paint. There was an older
sergeant, with the nametag “Boggs” over his right shirt pocket,
sitting shuffling papers at a metal desk toward the front of the
room. To the back of the room, I could see there were a number of
desks with young female Airman sitting at them, where their
typewriters were beating a constant tattoo of clicking and clacking.
As my eyes scanned the room, I could see a United States and a
Texas State flag on stanchions frame the pictures of President
Richard M. Nixon and some other person in an officer‟s uniform
with the words “Base Commander” printed underneath it.
I dropped my duffle bag and reported to the older sergeant
sitting at the desk, “Airman Young, reporting as ordered,” I yelled
as I handed him my orders. “Whoa, slow down, you aren‟t in basic
training anymore,” explained the sergeant. “You don‟t have to yell

49
anymore, those days are long over,” as he took the orders and read
over them. “Are you related to a congressman?” the sergeant
inquired. “No, I don‟t even know any congressmen.” “Why?” I
asked. “Well,” he responded, “your orders came straight out of the
pentagon. Somebody pretty high up must know you.”
I heard a long ago familiar voice behind me, “Do you still like
to run?” As I turned I replied, “No, as a matter of fact I hate to
run.” I turned to look and saw a young black First Lieutenant with
his chrome bars shining and the name Morgan on a little blue
plastic tag over his right shirt pocket. As I jumped to attention and
snapped a salute at the young officer, I remembered that first night
at basic training and the momentary comrade shared. “I see you
have met First Sgt. Boggs,” the Lieutenant said. “He will help you
get situated and get you assigned to a room. When you‟re settled
in, I want you to report to me. It‟s good to have you here and I
know you are going to really enjoy this new assignment,” he
added as he turned to return to the office he had come out of.
My first thought was, “what does this damn nigger know?”
Inside I was still feeling the anger from the morning, trying to
understand why I had been assigned here instead of Vietnam.
As the young Lieutenant left the room, I approached my First
Sergeant for my assignment and living instructions. I asked the
First Sergeant, “When did someone decide that niggers were smart
enough to be officers?” There was an instant hush in the room.
The only sound was that of a lone fly beating itself against the
window. The black Lieutenant slowly turned on his heels and gave
me a hard stare as he coolly whispered, “Who in the fuck do you
think you, are calling me a nigger… boy?” Get your god damn ass

50
in my office and you stand at attention until I tell you to move.” I
spun on my heels and entered the office that was to the rear of me
and snapped to attention. While I was standing there, I saw the
same pictures of President Nixon and the Base Commander
hanging on the wall that I saw in the outer office. Behind the large
old oak desk with its comfortable looking leather chair, I saw
numerous awards and diplomas on the wall. There was a diploma
from Yale University, The United States Air Force Academy and a
multitude of schools that this officer attended. There was even one
for training at the FBI Academy. They all had the same name,
Daniel Morgan, printed in old English italic type on them. “Oh
damn,” I quietly said to myself, “I think I am in deep shit,”
remembering that name tag on the Lieutenant saying Morgan. As I
stood there at attention, I could hear the low discussion in the
outer office and I relaxed for a moment when I heard a bit of
laughter as the Lieutenant walked into his office. As I stood there,
the Lieutenant walked around his desk and sat in the comfortable
chair, his hands steepled together as if in prayer giving me a far off
look as he asked, “Where did you learn your racism?” “I‟m not a
raciest sir,” I argued. “Where do you get referring to me as a
nigger?” he asked. I thought for a moment, thinking back to my
father‟s descriptions and epitaphs he had issued on a regular basis.
“I guess from my Dad,” I explained. “He told me not to hang
around niggers. Sorry, I mean black people. My dad told me not
even to breathe near them boys or I would catch black.” The
Lieutenant slowly shook his head with obvious antipathy as he
looked over my personnel file. He looked at me and
acknowledged, “You grew up in Maryland. Did you know that

51
back in the days of slavery that Maryland was also a free state?”
“Yes sir,” I replied, “I learned that in high school.” “Didn‟t you
have any black students in school with you?” he asked. “Yes sir, I
had one nigger girl in Biology class and I had to spend the whole
period holding my breath.” A look of distain came over the
Lieutenant‟s face with my utterance and I promptly apologized as
he continued, “You sat behind the girl for a whole year, and did
you catch black?” “No sir,” I mumbled. “Then there is something
wrong with your thinking, wouldn‟t you say?” he inquired. “Yes
sir,” I acknowledged. The Lieutenant continued, “We will forget
this one. I want you to go get settled in your room and I want you
back here in two hours. We are going to have a long talk,” he said.
I snapped a salute, turned on my heel, left the Lieutenant‟s
office feeling rather sheepish and embarrassed as I faced my First
Sergeant in the outer office. “Learn something today? Did you
boy?” the old sergeant grimly inquired. “Yes sergeant, I think I
did, but I just don‟t know what yet,” I mumbled. As I took my
room assignment and directions to my new living quarters, I had a
myriad of thoughts, questions, and desired understandings running
through my mind. I have always held niggers, no blacks, in utter
disregard and contempt. I had never even considered their
worthiness as human beings, yet here I was very much liking and
finding respect for this black Lieutenant. “Oh dad,” I thought,
“what did you do to me?”
I picked up my duffle bag, sheepishly left the Orderly room,
and headed towards the barracks, which was about ten yards to the
rear of the building. As I entered the three story barracks, I noticed
the narrow red linoleum hallway with a mirror shine and many

52
doors on each side with numbers over the doors. I quietly trudged
up the steps, assuming that my room number 276 would be on the
second floor. As I rounded the staircase in my climb, I heard a
loud racket and pushed back against the wall as two Airman went
racing quickly by laughing and rough housing. As they exited the
building, quiet returned with the exception of muted sounds
coming from the televisions playing behind closed doors. As I
went down the hall I looked up at the numbers over the doors. I
found room 276 and as I put in the key and turned it, the door in
the room next door opened where an older sergeant looked out and
inquired, “Are you sure you‟re on the right floor? This floor is
reserved for NCO‟s or personnel with higher security clearances.”
I looked down at my room assignment and at the numbers on the
key and said, “This is where they have me,” as I walked into the
room and closed the door. I was impressed with the comfort and
amenities in the room. There was still the same single size bunk,
with the olive drab blanket, but with a much thicker mattress and a
pillow that looked as though it just might be comfortable. On the
far wall was a large window with white drapes over a blackout
curtain. To one side was a small refrigerator and a gray metal desk
with a not too comfortable looking chair. It was a pleasant change
to see a closet for clothes rather than the footlocker from basic
training. This wasn‟t going to be too bad I thought as I started to
unpack and get settled in. It felt strange to finally be out of
uniform and wearing my tennis shoes, jeans, and old white shirt. It
felt stranger yet to feel how tight my clothes had gotten. I felt a
flush of joy at the realization that I was growing not only mentally
but physically as well.

53
 I looked at the clock and realized that I had just a few minutes
until I was supposed to meet Lt. Morgan at the Orderly room. I
pushed a comb through my still short hair and ran out of the room
and across the courtyard just as the clock struck five. As I entered
the Orderly room, I found that it was empty except for First Sgt.
Boggs and Lt. Morgan, who stood there in deep argumentative
discussion. I heard mention of a new Department of Defense
concept called “formative character” included with the mention of
my name. Lt. Morgan gave a little scowl as he saw my
unintentional eavesdropping and then they both broke into huge
grins as First Sgt. Boggs laughingly said, “You look like a little
boy with them high water pants and them little sneakers.”
Embarrassed, I explained that these were the only civilian clothes I
owned. Lt. Morgan gave a hearty laugh and said, “Lets go son,
we‟ll head over to my quarters and see how we can remedy that.”

54
 Chapter 8
A new beginning, with a plan….

T
he sun was still high up in the sky as Lt. Morgan and I
climbed into an Air Force open top jeep. The warm
sun and the hot blowing air added to the moment of
contentment and freedom that I was feeling as we drove through
Bergstrom Air Force Base, which appeared to be a small self-
contained city. There was of course what I thought was the
obligatory flightline, with about a hundred jets and little dual prop
planes. I later learned they were the F-4 fighters and 02 Spy
Planes. There were things called Commissaries that were like
grocery stores, barbershops, tailor shops, Base Exchanges that
were like K-Marts without the blue light specials, and just about
any other necessity you could imagine. There were even
subdivisions of homes for the Air Force personnel with families
that were stationed there.
We pulled up to the front of a low neat building that was
divided into little subsections with separate front doors facing the

55
expansive lawn and peach trees with large fat peaches on their
limbs. As we passed a small sign that indicated Officers Only, I
must have shown my nervousness, as Lt. Morgan told me not to
worry about the other officers. We entered his quarters and I saw
that officers did live much nicer than enlisted. As Lt. Morgan went
into the other room he yelled, “Have you figured out why you
were sent here yet?” “No sir”, I replied. “Let me get changed and
we‟ll go down and have a beer and talk,” he said and added, “You
really seriously don‟t have any other clothes?” “You look like a
little kid in those sneakers and jeans.” “No sir” I replied. “This is
about all I have and this barely fits me.” “Here,” he yelled from
the other room as he tossed out a pair of black slacks, purple silk
shirt, and black silk jacket. “Try these on.” I marveled at the colors
and the texture of the clothes as I lifted them. “You‟re sure sir?” I
yelled back. “Yes, get changed, we got to go,” he replied. I tried
on the clothes and found them to be much too large. As Lt.
Morgan came out and saw me, he laughed. I was bright red from
embarrassment and Lt. Morgan laughed again and came over to
adjust my clothing. He shoved the long sleeves up my arms to the
elbows, pulled the purple shirt collar out and over the lapels of the
coat, and rolled the waistband down until the pant legs came up.
He then handed me a pair of shiny black shoes, which we filled the
toes with newspaper until they felt comfortable. I stood there in
front of the mirror seeing an image of myself I could have never
imagined. “Damn, this is way groovy” I said. “I look like a black
pimp.” “You like?” asked Lt. Morgan. “Oh yes sir, I like very
much.” The sun was setting as we left the room and climbed in the
jeep for my experience of a beer at the Officers‟ Club. We entered

56
the Officers‟ Club and headed toward the back of the large, yet
comfortable dimly lit room. Soft music was playing and the bar
was lined with a few early evening patrons. A cocktail waitress
greeted Lt. Morgan and he quickly dismissed her with the order of
two coffees. “Airman Young,” Lt. Morgan started in a grim
manner, “you‟re going to meet someone very important in a few
minutes. If, at any time, you feel uncomfortable with the subject
matter, you keep it to yourself and we will discuss it after the
meeting. You got it?” he inquired. “Yes sir, no problem. Who are
we going to meet?” I inquired. “You‟ll learn that in a moment,” he
whispered. We sat there for about ten minutes drinking coffee and
exchanging small talk just to expel my nervousness at this
clandestine meeting. Lt. Morgan looked up and saw a well dressed
man over six feet tall with rugged good looks walk in the door and
I felt Lt. Morgan tense. Looking at me he said, “Okay big guy. Are
you ready for this?” “Yes sir, I sure am,” I replied with a bit of
edginess and excitement in my voice. “Just think,” I thought to
myself, “this morning I was bitching about not going to the „Nam
and here I am less than twelve hours later involved in intrigue.”
“Dan, how are you this fine evening?” the tall stranger inquired
as he walked up and held out his hand to Lt. Morgan. “Is this the
young protégé we‟ve been talking about?” he asked referring to
me. Ignoring the question Lt. Morgan said, “Life is good Eric.
How are the wife and kids?” Lt. Morgan and Eric exchanged small
talk for a while and laughing over the remembrances of past when
the stranger stated, “I think we better get out of here, too many big
ears.” As we exited the Officers‟ Club, Lt. Morgan introduced the
stranger to me, “Airman Young, this is Eric Marshal. He and his

57
wife Janet have been friends of mine for years. He used to be a big
wig lawyer up in New York City until he got recruited by the
agency.” “Mr. Marshal,” I replied as I held out my hand and took
his firm grip, “it is a pleasure to meet you.” “You can call me
Eric,” he replied. “And don‟t decide quite yet that it is a pleasure,”
he added. He looked at Lt. Morgan and added, “Let‟s get in the car
and out of here. I really don‟t want anyone to get a connection
between all of us.” There was a long black Lincoln Continental by
the curb with its motor running and a short heavy man, with short-
cropped hair and one long bushy eyebrow leaning against the back
of the car. As we approached, he jumped up and held the rear
door open where we climbed inside. I was absolutely
flabbergasted at the expanse of the interior of the car. There were
two comfortable leather seats the width of the car that faced each
other. In-between them was a bar with about a dozen crystal
stemmed glasses and various bottles of Bourbon and Scotch. The
faint odor of stale cigar smoke lingered in the air. The windows
were tinted a deep black that made seeing into the car impossible.
The driver gently accelerated away from the curb, turned, looked
at us, and asked, “Where to Eric?” “Up into the hills,” Eric replied
as he pushed the button that put a mirrored glass panel up between
the driver and us.
The air was so tense in the car it felt as if you could cut it with
a knife as Eric stated, “Airman Young, do you mind if I call you
Trent?” “No sir, I don‟t mind,” I nervously replied. Eric continued,
“Do you know how you ended up here?” “Yes sir, I got in the
car,” I replied. “No, do you know why you are where you are here
today?” he asked. “No sir, but I would sure like to know. My

58
recruiter promised me I would be going to Vietnam and that I
would be going to school to be an Air Traffic Controller.” Eric
laughed as he said, “you haven‟t learned yet that those recruiters
lie? Besides, he doesn‟t work for the Air Force, he works for me.”
“And who do you work for?” I asked. Before continuing he asked,
“Do you know what a Top Secret Level lll Security Clearance is?”
“Yes sir,” I replied, “it is why they asked me all those questions
for three days and the F.B.I. came down and gave me a hard time.”
“Do you know what it means?” this tall stranger again asked. “Yes
sir, I replied, “It means I can keep my mouth shut.” “Good for
you,” he said adding, “I work for the agency son, and Lt. Morgan
here, is OSI,” he replied. “What is the agency and what in the
world is OSI?” I questioned. Lt. Morgan broke in with, “the
Agency is CIA or Central Intelligence Agency and OSI is the Air
Force Office of Special Investigations.” “Damn, you guys are
spooks,” I blurted out. “Well, we don‟t use the term spooks, rather
we are called operatives,” said Eric. “Then that recruiter of mine
back in Washington D.C., was an operative?” I asked. “Yep, he
sure was. And he helps me recruit my finest people,” added Eric.
“So what do you want with me?” I asked. “I barely made it out of
high school and from what I have learned of the world in the last
couple months, I have lived a very sheltered life.” “Well,” Eric
replied, “you have a raw and intelligent aggressiveness and
innocent candor we know we can work with. Your looking about
fourteen years old doesn‟t hurt either,” laughed Lt. Morgan. I am
sure I turned a deep crimson as I gave a contemptuous look and
said, “Yeah, thanks, don‟t remind me. You guys going to tell me
that you know I haven‟t got laid yet also?” Ignoring my comment

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Eric said, “We, your Lieutenant and I, think you would make a
worthwhile addition to our team.” “And,” I asked, “What does
your team do?” “We fix situations in the world that are broken,”
said Eric. “We take off where congress fucked up and put things
back in order. We are, shall we say, fixers of the constitution,” Lt.
Morgan added quietly. “We make things happen so our country
always spins in the right direction.” “So, what am I going to do?” I
asked. “How are you going to use me?” “Well,” said Lt. Morgan,
“the first thing you are going to do is get a real education.” Eric
broke in and said, “Dan, we can use him on that one thing.” My
ears perked up and asked, “What thing?” Lt. Morgan mused for a
moment and stated, “We‟ll talk about it in the morning.” Eric
Marshal lowered the divider glass in the car and told the driver to
return us to the Officers‟ Club.
We arrived at the Officers‟ Club and as Lt. Morgan and I got
out of the car, Eric promised that he would see us soon and we
slowly walked toward the front of the club. We stopped by a large
tree. As we stood there under the cool evening breeze and the
waning moon starting its climb, we lit our cigarettes and quietly
absorbed the sounds of the jet engines in the distance. “You guys
are serious, aren‟t you?” I asked. “Yes Trent, dead serious,” said
Lt. Morgan. “And if I don‟t want to play?” I asked. “Then,” Lt.
Morgan said quite candidly, “You won‟t play anything else.”
“Looks like I‟m going to play,” I said. After a few moments of
quiet thought and watching the flicker of fireflies over the lawn, I
turned to Lt. Morgan and stated, “You do know, I really do want
to play. I want to be a part of this team.” Lt. Morgan smiled as he
said, “Eric and I knew that two months ago. Come on, I‟ll drop

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you off at your quarters and you get some sleep and I‟ll see you at
0700 hours in my office.”
I set my alarm clock for six a.m., and I lay there excited at this
new turn of events. Early this morning I was a new airman, just
out of basic training cursing my not being sent to Vietnam and
now I was going to do important things like maintain the order of
the constitution where congress had fucked it up. Sleep was a long
time in coming, and when it finally came, it was filled with dreams
of my appearing much older and standing in the middle of blood
and carnage. I woke up in a sweat, as the alarm buzzed, wondering
if the nightmares were a foreshadowing of life yet to be lived. I put
on my uniform and looked at the clothes lying on the chair that I
had received from Lt. Morgan the night before. I soon
remembered the conversations with Eric and Lt. Morgan from the
previous night and I started to sweat. Had that all been a dream
also?
As I arrived at Lt. Morgan‟s office First Sgt. Boggs looked up,
saw my tired look, and asked if I had a rough night. “No sergeant,”
I replied. “I just missed breakfast.” “Step in here, Airman Young,”
I heard behind me. I turned and sapped a salute as I saw Lt.
Morgan. With the salute returned, I approached the desk and stood
at attention as Lt. Morgan told me to close the door, relax and
have a seat. Lt. Morgan threw me a patch that had two Air Force
stripes. “Here you go Airman First Class Young.” “What the heck
sir?” I questioned. “You‟re promoted,” adding, “I can‟t have my
boys hanging down there with the lowliest.” “Groovy sir,” I said
as I grinned a big goofy grin. “You still want to play in our
sandbox A1C Young?” asked Lt. Morgan. “You‟re serious sir?” I

61
asked and added, “Hell yes, sir.” “Great,” he said with a smile,
“saves me a bullet.” I tried to give a small weak smile as I felt a
lump growing in my throat and the palms of my hands gave off
little beads of sweat. Lt. Morgan was not smiling.
Lt. Morgan pushed the intercom button and requested the
presence of First Sgt. Boggs in the office. “First Sergeant,” Lt.
Morgan started, “A1C Young here is going to be working with
me. The assignments you give him will come directly through
me.” “Is he?” started First Sgt. Boggs as Lt. Morgan held up his
hand to stop his question and said, “We‟ll see. At least you don‟t
have to get the .45 out of your desk yet.” I swallowed as I
remembered from basic training that a .45 was a very powerful
handgun. “No, you won‟t need it,” I said grimly….

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 Chapter 9
Go ahead, pull it out and die….

F
irst Sgt. Boggs sat at the edge of Lt. Morgan‟s desk
and listened as Lt. Morgan started, “We have a huge
problem here with theft. The Commissary and Base
Exchange have been broken into a number of times during the last
six months. Also, we are losing small items from the jets and other
aircraft.” “Like what kind of stuff?” I asked. “Survival knives,
maps, dash lights, and damn near anything else that isn‟t nailed
down,” said Lt. Morgan. “Tell him about last week,” said First Sgt
Boggs. Lt. Morgan again held up his hand to quiet First Sgt.
Boggs and said, “Last week, the Armory got hit and we lost a
large number of AR-15s and M-16 rifles. They even got some high
explosive rounds for the M-79 grenade launcher.” “Holy shit sir,”
I whispered. “That shit could cause some heavy damage.” “Yeah
well,” said Lt. Morgan, “you‟re going to help us catch them.”
We left Lt. Morgan‟s office and as we approached the mess
hall for breakfast I asked, “How come the Security Police haven‟t
caught them?” First Sgt. Boggs said, “You tell me,” adding in a
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horse whisper, “Those incompetent bastards.” “How often is there
a theft on the base?” I asked. “Oh, I would venture to say about
four times a week,” added Lt. Morgan. “You would think there
would be a pattern in there somewhere if it has been going on for
that long and that often,” I added. “You would think so,” said Lt.
Morgan adding, “This is going to be yours to figure out. First Sgt.
Boggs, I want you to give A1C Young anything he requests and
also provide him with whatever support he requires.” Further
adding, “This crap has got to end.”
As we ate breakfast, I let the criminal aspect of my mind
wander into full gear. I tried to imagine myself trying to commit
the same crimes and tried to come up with a scenario that would
make the crimes work. This base, Bergstrom, was not that large
and there sure were a hell of a lot of Security Police around. It
seemed as though no matter where you looked there was the same
white hat, worn by the Security Police, perched on the head of an
Airman. I had an idea formulating in my mind as I broke into a
knowing smile. Lt. Morgan and First Sgt. Boggs looked at me with
a questioning look as I said, “Piece of cake sir… piece of cake.
Sir, request permission to be excused,” I asked as I had become
excited by my ideas relative to the thefts. “I think this boy is on a
mission,” said First Sgt. Boggs adding with a smile, “A1C Young,
you figure this out, and we‟re going to take you to LaGrange.”
I ran from the mess hall and went to the Orderly room. As I
entered, I saw the cute little brunette from the day before sitting at
her typewriter clicking and clacking away and asked, “May I
please have the duty rosters for the last six months of all the
Security Police?” She looked at me and gave a questioning look as

64
she peered at my single stripe. Seeing her looking at my sleeve, I
reached into my pocket and said that I was an Airman First Class
and I hadn‟t had the time to sew on the new stripe. She continued
to give me a questioning look as the screen door to the office
slammed behind me and Lt. Morgan gave her a nod of approval.
She went over to the filing cabinet, pulled out six large folders,
and handed them to me. Excited, I sat at one of the empty desks
and started to read the list of names and times. I excitedly told the
cute little brunette that I needed the incident reports from the last
six months also. Lt. Morgan again gave her a nod of approval as
he came over to me and looked over my shoulder asking, “What
have you got?” “Just a hunch, sir,” I replied. “Nancy,” Lt. Morgan
said to the female Airman, “You give A1C Young here anything
he needs.” I spent the next several hours sitting at the desk looking
over the duty rosters and incident reports looking for a connection
that I knew had to be there. I worked through lunch and dinner and
in the early morning hours in the empty office, I laughed out loud
yelping, “Got them sons of bitches.”
I spent the next several hours confirming my thoughts and as
the sun came up, First Sgt. Boggs walked in carrying a bag of
donuts and a couple cups of coffee. He said, “I went and banged
on your door this morning and when there was no answer, I
figured you were still at it. Come up with any ideas yet?” “Oh hell
yes,” I said excitedly as I reached for the bag of donuts and the
extra cup of coffee. As I wolfed the donuts down, trying to fill that
empty void in my stomach, I explained how I thought the thefts
were being committed. “The boy has got it,” First Sgt. Boggs said
to Lt. Morgan as he walked in. “Have you been here all night?” Lt.

65
Morgan inquired of me. “Yes, sir, but I‟ve got it,” I quickly added,
“I know how they do it.” “Well then A1C Young, you go ahead
and get them. Just let the First Sgt. or me know what you need.”
Damn, I thought, two days here and I am going to solve a crime
that has been baffling these guys for six months. “Well sir,” I
thoughtfully replied, “I‟m sure I know how they are doing it, but
how do I prove it legally?” “That,” Lt. Morgan said wistfully, “is
where that training and education I promised you, is going to come
in.”
Over the course of the next three weeks, I spent all my waking
hours at the Bergstrom AFB Training School. Under the guidance
of many different instructors, that were supposed to be experts in
their own unique field, I received intense instruction on the
application, understanding, and philosophy of the fundamentals of
military law and its enforcement as it pertained to the Uniform
Code of Military Justice. For reasons unknown to me at the time, I
had a natural aptitude for comprehending, cataloging, and
ingesting the information and training they were pumping into me.
As each day progressed, I felt confidence growing within myself. I
frequently found myself in awe at the end of a training day as I
came to realize that I was receiving information on how field
grade and flag grade officers should handle and conduct various
scenarios as they related to the primary welfare of the United
States. I learned much more about how our constitution worked in
the real world, as I learned the proper distribution of select and
sometimes intentional misleading information to our congressional
representatives and local legislature. Each of the instructors was
very passionate on the dissemination and quality of the

66
information I was given, with exceptionally strict reminders at the
end of each day of the security clearance I held by a written
acknowledgement.
As I returned to my room each evening, I understood, from the
noise and the horseplay coming from the floor below, why I had a
room with the other NCO‟s rather than with the lower ranked
Security Police. As I was not permitted to take notes or have any
written material during my classes, I found it necessary to spend
most evenings quietly assimilating the knowledge and information
gathered during the day and attempting to apply it to my life and
my daily changing attitude and character.
I knew I was a different person as I walked into the Orderly
room three weeks later with a knowing air and confident stride. I
let the screen door slam behind me as I walked in, Nancy looked
up, smiled, and asked where I had been the last three weeks. I
dismissed her with, “Have you seen the First Sergeant or the
Lieutenant around?” She pointed to the closed door of the
Lieutenant‟s office and whispered, “They‟re in a confidential
meeting, take a seat. I heard them talking about you quietly this
morning and I think they may be waiting for you.” I took a seat
and thumbed an old Popular Mechanics magazine enjoying the
breeze of the old metal ceiling fan cooling the room. Moments
later the door to the Lieutenant‟s office opened and I saw the
serious look of First Sgt. Boggs and Lt. Morgan as they walked
out with a solemn looking man standing over six feet tall, well
muscled, with a deep intense look in his eyes. As I peered closer, I
could see the scars on his strong black face, which I knew
instinctively, were from the many incursions he had participated in

67
through his long career. He had that old soul look of a man that
had lived a full life and would not be afraid of death if it came
knocking on his door. I instinctively knew him not to be military,
by the deep black beard, even though he possessed the strong
bearing of one who had spent his life in such service. “A1C
Young, I would like you to meet Alex Stone,” said Lt. Morgan
quietly. “Why don‟t you come into my office,” he added. As we
entered the office, Alex Stone leaned up against the wall with one
shoulder, lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled as he questioned,
“You‟ve had a rather intense three weeks, haven‟t you boy?” “No
sir,” I replied. This Alex guy scoffed as he stated, “Tell me what
you learned boy.” “Well sir,” I replied. “I learned I don‟t have to
tell you shit, and who the hell are you?” I asked, adding in
sarcasm, “You sound like you‟re a sanctimonious asshole, sir.” All
three of the men laughed as Lt. Morgan slapped me on the back
saying, “This is Alex Stone. He is the one that developed the
program you just went through and he came by to tell us how well
you did in the last three weeks.” “And,” I asked, “how well did I
do? “You can call me Alex,” the tall black man replied, adding,
“my wife thinks I‟m an asshole most of the time too, and you did
fine son.” After a few moments of small banter and exchange of
handshakes and promises of visits to come between the three men,
Lt. Morgan added, “A1C Young, we still have that theft issue
waiting for you. First Sgt. Boggs will get you set up with what you
need. Let‟s see if we can get those guys.”
First Sgt. Boggs and I left the office and found ourselves an
empty desk where we started to lay out a schedule that I believed
would save us the most time and yet at the same time cause the

68
least suspicion among the Security Police Squadron. Within a few
hours, First Sgt. Boggs had two of the Airman from the Security
Police Squadron reassigned temporarily to a Security Alert team
that was headed to Houston, Texas thus causing a shortage within
the ranks. We also dummied up my arrival orders to Bergstrom so
it would appear as though I had been in the Air Force for eighteen
months and that I had been reassigned from Andrews Air Force
Base to this base because of my suspected, but never proved,
involvement in theft of weaponry and the shooting of a K-9 dog.
We figured that under any scrutiny that I would be able to pull the
charade off because I had grown up in the Washington
metropolitan area, which would lend credence to the cover story.
First Sgt. Boggs and I shook hands as he said, “The next time we
meet, we will have never met.” Smiling and with gratitude I said,
“Thank you sergeant.”
I left the Orderly room and reported to the Provost Marshal‟s
Office. As I entered the building, I heard a rather loud obnoxious
sounding voice as I walked to a door that had the sign “Briefing
Room” over the open door. As I looked in, I saw a fat Sergeant in
a Security Police white hat standing at a podium with a red veined
alcoholic‟s nose. He appeared to have spent twenty-five of his
forty-five years of life sitting on a bar stool indulging in way too
many nightclub libations. To his left side was a skinny Staff
Sergeant, appearing just as old and worn, wearing the same type of
white hat, looking like he was the other half of this Laurel and
Hardy joke. I smiled inwardly at the pathetic sight as I listened to
the fat sergeant with the name Mason stamped into a blue plastic
tag over his right shirt pocket berate the thirty-five or so Security

69
Policeman in their failed attempts to curb the crime wave that had
hit the base. As I leaned against the rear wall and listened, I
observed that over half of these security policemen in the room
were emulating the fat sergeant by the self-manufactured overt
curves in their white hats by the addition of extra plastic in the
crest. Closer scrutiny showed that these soldiers were also more
tanned or appeared to have engaged in much more outdoor activity
than their fellow Airman had. As I sat back and listened, I noted
that work and squad car assignments were being issued with the
little clique receiving ones that kept them together and would
afford them more mobility. As I stood there, holding up the wall
with my shoulder, SSgt. Mason looked up and asked, “You there,
against the wall, can I help you?” “Yes sergeant,” I replied, “I was
just reassigned here from Andrews AFB.” “Well, this isn‟t any of
your business,” he responded, adding “Get your ass out of here
and I‟ll see you in my office in ten minutes.” “Yes sergeant,” I
replied as I turned on my heel and at the same time, laughingly
thought that this fat sergeant and his buddies did indeed have a lot
to hide.
As I entered the fat sergeant‟s office, I could see that it had
been very well appointed with an expensive antique mahogany
desk with brass fittings relative to the early days of Texas land and
oil barons and the large expansive matching mahogany bookcases,
which had been filled with antique weaponry. On the wall behind
the large desk was a glass case containing an old bullet riddled and
smoke damaged Texas flag bearing a plaque that professed the
flag to be one that flew over the Alamo. “This man spends a hell
of a lot more than his measly little six thousand dollars a year,” I

70
whispered in awe to myself. I heard the door squeak with
movement and saw SSgt. Mason standing there with the Laurel
half of this little Laurel and Hardy show standing to his rear like a
good little puppy. “Nosy little son of a bitch, aren‟t you?” SSgt
Mason intoned. “No sergeant,” I sarcastically replied in attempts
to portray the image of a cocky and egotistical smartass. “I just
didn‟t want to interrupt the lovely little speech you were feeding
the boys back there.” The skinny little sergeant squeaked out,
“What the hell you looking for in the sergeant‟s office, huh?”
“Why SSgt. Mason, I was just standing here and admiring your
obvious class and dignity you portray with all these very classy
antiques,” adding, “you know it takes a high degree of intelligence
to comprehend the quality of these fine amenities.” SSgt. Mason‟s
chest swelled like that of a fat Cheshire cat with the bullshit praise.
“Do you know antiques, Airman?” SSgt. Mason asked. “Why yes,
sergeant.” I replied. “My family ran one of the most
comprehensive antique shops in Washington D.C. that specialized
in Texas antiquities until the insurance company said my uncle
burned it down for ten million dollars in insurance money.” “Did
he do it? Burn down the shop, I mean,” the skinny little sergeant
blurted. “Shut up stupid,” SSgt. Mason reprimanded him as he
said to me, “This skinny guy here is SSgt. Leroy Ramsey, our
assistant flight leader. I am SSgt. Randy Mason, and we run this
little operation.” I smiled as I held out my hand to shake theirs at
the same time thinking that these boys did in fact appear to have
quite a “little operation” going here. “You got your orders with
you?” SSgt Mason asked. “Yes sergeant,” I replied as I reached
into my briefcase opening it just enough so they could see the

71
small handgun which I had lying inside that I pretended to
furtively hide as I pulled out the orders. From the corner of my
eye, I could see SSgt. Mason and SSgt. Ramsey exchange quick
wondering glances at the sight of the gun, yet neither speaking a
word.
SSgt. Mason took my orders, looked over them and stated,
“Andrews is supposed to be a pretty good assignment, how did
you fuck it up to get sent here?” “Well sergeant,” I started. “I got
framed. Someone stole a bunch of weapons and they said I did it.
Then they sent in this K-9 dog to search my room and car and the
little bastard tried to bite me so I blew its fucking head off. My
lawyer said it was a good shoot because it was self defense and
they never did find the guns on me.” “Is that one of the guns in
your briefcase there?” SSgt. Ramsey squeaked. “Why sergeant,” I
asked him, “do I look that damn stupid? This is the only thing I
have left from my brother that got killed in the „Nam,” I added,
knowing full well that Lt. Morgan and I had dummied up the
report that put the gun in the briefcase on the National Crime
Information Computer as stolen from the Andrews AFB Armory.
SSgt. Mason responded, “Well you report back here at 0800 hours
and we‟ll get you set up with your weapon and gun belt and we‟ll
get you on the road. Why don‟t you let Leroy here take you to
lunch while I make some calls and confirm theses orders with
personnel?” “Sure,” I said as I reached for my briefcase and SSgt.
Mason put his hand on it and quickly said, “I‟ll keep it in my safe
while you are gone, you wouldn‟t want anyone else seeing that toy
you got in there.” I smiled as I lifted my hand knowing that this

72
little trap was going better than expected and said, “No problem
sarge.”
I had spent the next hour listening to the incessant bantering
and bragging of the skinny little sergeant that kept insisting that I
call him Leroy. Noting the obvious fact that he was not the
brightest little firefly in the woods, I knew that in this band of
obvious misfits, he would be the weak link. As we walked back
into SSgt. Mason‟s office an hour later, I knew by the smug look
on the fat sergeant‟s face that I had passed his little test and that I
was in. SSgt. Mason opened the safe and reached in for my
briefcase adding, “Just as safe as if in your momma‟s arms.” I
laughed to myself as I thought of how right he was. Had he known
my mother, he would have known that he would have been
screwed and ripped off by her at every opportunity. As I opened
the briefcase to put my orders back inside, smiling inwardly, I
could see that the small speck of grease that I had placed over
one of the numbers of the serial number to obscure it had been
rubbed clean exposing the full set of numbers.
The following morning I reported to the Provost Marshal‟s
office at 0800 hours and following the briefing I was issued my
gun, badge, and gun belt that held my handcuffs and black wooden
nightstick, which was made of pine and I knew it would break on
the first head it hit. SSgt. Mason then drove me out to Bergstrom‟s
main gate in his squad car, dropped me off with a smile, and said,
“Have fun,” as he sped away. I shook my head in disgust as I
looked at the pocked marked, skinny kid with glasses the size of
coke bottle bottoms standing at attention at the gate who,
unbelievably, looked younger than me. “This is going to be a

73
waste” I thought to myself, as the young airman started an
incessant diatribe of, “Where you from? Do you like this place?
You have any brothers or sisters?” “Shut the fuck up,” I said to
him. “Do you always run your mouth like this?” I asked,
understanding why this kid was put on the main gate. “Want to
make some obscene phone calls,” he came back with indicating
the phone that was next to him. I looked at him and said, “You‟re
a sick little fuck aren‟t you?” The little Airman retreated into a
corner of the little guard shack with hurt feelings as I stood outside
waving the cars through as they entered the base, snapping salutes
at each officer as they passed. Several hours, which seemed like an
eternity, went by as I saw the squad car carrying SSgt. Mason and
SSgt. Ramsey drive up. SSgt. Mason with his fat red face looked
out with a smile as SSgt. Ramsey‟s squeaky voice came from the
passenger‟s seat, “You have enough of this yet?” I looked at SSgt.
Mason and said, “You got to get me away from this sick little
fucker or I‟m going to break his pimply ass neck.” “Hop in,” said
SSgt. Mason. “We checked you out with Andrews and they swear
you are about the most corrupt and cocky soldier they‟ve ever
come across. They said that you would fuck your sister for a
dollar,” he added with a nasty little smile. “Well, not for a dollar,
but maybe five bucks would do it,” I laughingly added. “Well, you
just might fit in with this bunch of misfits we attract here,” said
SSgt. Mason evenly.
For the next several weeks, I rode with the little clique of SSgt.
Mason and SSgt. Ramsey. It was so obvious that each one of the
Security Policeman were testing me to see how I would react in
various situations. At least three nights a week were spent in

74
training for response to bank robberies, hold-ups at the Base
Exchange, the little base gas stations, and burglaries of the various
base businesses and officers‟ quarters. The pattern that I had
worked up with First Sgt. Boggs and Lt. Morgan was proving that
I had been on the right track all along. Each night of training I was
kept standing by the squad car to monitor the radio with strict
orders not to move. I was further admonished not to move the
squad car, with the excuse that I had yet to be issued my military
drivers license. Each morning, after the exercises conducted by
SSgt. Mason and SSgt. Ramsey, there were reports of home
burglaries, break-ins of the Base Exchange, or various other small-
scale thefts.
“What are you going to do A1C Young,” I heard whispered
behind me as I was getting my hair cut by the old barber. I looked
in the mirror and the much-wrinkled old man winked at me saying,
“I‟m with O.S.I., and Lt. Morgan wanted me to pass on to you that
it‟s time.” “Time?” I questioned. “Yes… time,” he stated softly
adding, “Those boys are getting way out of hand. Inventory loss,
for the last month for these thefts is up over a hundred-thousand
dollars.” “Tell Lt. Morgan I need three days,” adding “I got invited
to SSgt. Mason‟s ranch in the morning for some riding with the
little clique. I think they are going to let me in.”
The following morning we arrived at SSgt. Mason‟s ranch in
the back of a rickety old pickup driven by an old Mexican that was
sent by SSgt. Mason to pick a few of us up. We rolled through the
gate under a sign that indicated that were entering the “Circle C”
ranch. The tight barbed wire fences appeared to enclose hundreds
of acres of rolling fields with large trees scattered over the

75
landscape. The high billowing clouds with animal formations
hiding in their midst added to the feeling of contentment one felt
as one viewed this expansive range. In the distance, you could see
a large farmhouse with a fresh coat of white paint, lending it to
blend with the rich and prosperous land around it. To the rear of
the home was a new horse paddock with split rail fence, fronting
the expanse of a newly constructed red barn. As we drove up to
the freshly painted farmhouse, I saw SSgt. Mason and SSgt.
Ramsey standing there in their jeans and chaps, plaid shirts, and
their cowboy hats perched atop their heads. “Welcome boys,”
greeted SSgt. Mason. “We ain‟t going to have any of that sergeant
shit while we are here. We‟re going to have us some fun. Trent, on
this ranch we share a few beers, a little bit of work, and a whole
hell of a lot of fun. There ain‟t no military on this ranch,” he said
as he handed me a cold Budweiser popping the cap for me with his
rough stubby fingers. “Why thank you Randy,” I said with a smile
as I took the beer and put it to my lips. I watched SSgt. Mason
stroll, with a fat man‟s swagger, toward the other guys that were
grouped around the picnic table inhaling the sandwiches that were
piled there. “Leroy,” I asked as I watched SSgt. Mason joke with
the guys at the table, “How long has Randy had this ranch?” “Oh
hell boy, this ranch belongs to both of us,” Leroy said with a grin.
“We bought this little spread about two years ago and we figure
another year and we‟ll be able to retire here and raise us some fine
thoroughbred ponies.” “Well hell Leroy, I bet this spread cost you
a pretty penny and is a damn fine investment?” I asked, trying to
get SSgt. Ramsey to start running his mouth. As we engaged in
small talk, SSgt. Ramsey was revealing little information, other

76
than to try, in failed attempts, to show himself as a big man. There
was a flurry of dust as the old Mexican that drove us up here
swerved the old pickup truck hard into the paddock area yelling
for help. He explained in his broken English and overt hand
gestures that one of the horses had stepped into a gopher hole and
broke its leg. SSgt. Mason came running up with the guys I had
come to the ranch with and pushed the old Mexican away from the
driver‟s seat and yelled for SSgt. Ramsey to get in the back with
the other guys. With the old Mexican speaking in fast Spanish and
pointing the way, they took off in a cloud of dust leaving me
standing, coughing, and waving the dust away from my face. I
watched the dust curl from the back of the old pickup as it crested
a long hill. I smiled as I thought of the opportunities that lay ahead
of me. I quickly went to the house calling out, trying to find out if
someone was in the house. The only sound was the slamming of
the screen door banging in the wind and the old dog lying on the
porch yawning with disturbed sleep. I poked my head inside the
door again yelling, waiting for anyone to answer me from the
insistent quiet. I quickly entered the house and made a quick
search of each room. It appeared that everything in the house was
new. There was one of those new fangled, thousand dollar
videocassette recorders sitting on top of the television. In the
kitchen was one of those things that they were talking about on the
television called food processors. The furniture looked new with
hardly any wear on the fabric. Running up to the massive
bedrooms, I saw bedspreads with the most exquisite fabric I had
ever seen with the curtains matching them. Sitting on the bed
pondering the massive wealth contained in the home, I noticed that

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the bed was still hard from the lack of use. I quickly dropped my
jeans and running around the house half-naked, I copied serial
numbers from every item I could find that had a serial number
onto my leg with a pen. After what seemed to be an eternity, I
quickly pulled up my jeans and looked out the front door looking
for that tell-all curl of dust in the distance. Seeing none, I quickly
ran to the barn with the old dog trailing behind me. The barn had a
new lock on it, and as I shook the hasp in frustration, I saw the old
dog crawl under the barn looking for some relief from the noon
sun. Bending down and peering after the dog, I saw that even
though the barn looked new, the floorboards were from another
time and they were old and worn. I crawled under the barn and
lying on my back, I started to kick at the boards above me. As dust
and old wood rained down on me, I could see the floorboards
giving way. As the last board came loose, I got on my knees,
peered inside whistling to myself, and whispered loudly, “Got
these motherfuckers, they are going down.” I quickly pulled the
boards back in place and crawled from underneath the barn taking
the dog with me. I was covered with dirt and dust and in the
distance, I could see the old pickup truck coming back. I figured I
had less than a minute and the truck and its passengers would be
upon me. I quickly grabbed the dog and started wrestling with him
on the ground and as the pickup entered the paddock area SSgt.
Mason yelled out, “What the hell you doing with my dog?” “Just
playing with him sarge,” adding “I thought he might have been
lonely and it sure is boring out here in the hot sun.” “You‟re
going to kill that old dog, you keep throwing him around like
that,” said SSgt Ramsey. I let the dog go and watched him trot

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back toward the porch. It looked as though he turned his head and
gave me a contemptuous look as he lay back down with his old
black tail curled around him. “How‟s the horse,” I asked SSgt.
Mason. “We had to put him down,” he replied sadly. “Look, I
know I invited you guys out here for a good time,” said SSgt.
Mason adding, “but I really ain‟t in the mood anymore. Why don‟t
we make it next weekend.” We all agreed that the mood of the day
was not there anymore and we all climbed into the back of the old
pickup as the old Mexican quickly drove us back to the base.
Thankfully, the ride was short, for the guys I was riding with
couldn‟t shut up about the blood that came from the center of the
horse‟s forehead as SSgt. Mason put a bullet in it.
That night as the base quieted down and it appeared that the
world was asleep, I quietly knocked on First Sgt. Boggs‟s door
and I quietly whispered, “We got them sarge. If we move quickly,
we got them cold.” I stood there as First Sgt. Boggs threw on his
uniform and I filled him in on the day‟s events. First Sgt. Boggs
said excitedly, “I knew you could do it, we have to brief Lt.
Morgan.” We quietly left the barracks and raced through the base
in the sergeant‟s jeep, and as we approached the officers quarters
we jumped out and moved quickly to Lt. Morgan‟s door where we
saw a light coming from under the door. As I tapped gently on the
door, Lt. Morgan opened it with a tired look in his eyes. “Tell me
you have some good news,” he begged. “Yes sir, sure do,” I
replied with a smile as First Sgt. Boggs stood there with a big grin.
For the next hour, I related the day‟s events in detail and
pulling down my jeans I showed him the serial numbers of the
property I had seen. “Slick move,” said Lt. Morgan as he copied

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the numbers adding, “That SSgt. Mason isn‟t as dumb as he
looks.” I would venture to guess that he would have noticed paper
bulging from your pocket.” “That‟s what I thought sir,” I said.
“I‟ll run these through NCIC in the morning and we‟ll see what we
have,” said Lt. Morgan as he opened the door with a smile of relief
and bid us goodnight.
The following morning, as I left my barracks room for
breakfast, I met First Sgt. Boggs in the hallway and noted that he
looked exhausted but happy. “What‟s up, sarge,” I asked. Smiling,
First Sgt. Boggs whispered quietly, “You done good, all the
numbers are hot and we are good to go. Let‟s go,” he said adding,
“The Lieutenant is taking us out for breakfast.” We drove over to
the Sambo‟s Restaurant and we could see Lt. Morgan and Alex
Stone sitting at a table drinking coffee. They both stood up as First
Sgt. Boggs and I approached the table, we all shook hands as Lt.
Morgan ignored my salute. “We knew you could pull it off,” said
Alex. “We think tonight they are going to pull another of their
little capers and this time you and the Lieutenant are going to bust
them,” said Alex, “and at the same time I will move in with the
Feds on their ranch.” “Why at the same time?” I asked. Lt.
Morgan replied, “SSgt. Ramsey has decided to take some personal
time and we know things are moving.” “They have a note due on
the ranch and they need some cash.” We spent the next hour
discussing logistics and strategy where it was also decided I would
return to patrol duties normally that evening and wait for the call
over the radio for some sort of law enforcement exercise to
commence as a diversion.

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 I leaned against the side of the patrol car, parked at the top of
the hill, listening to the hum of mosquitoes as I inhaled deeply on
my cigarette, thinking of all the lives that were going to change
that evening. I heard the crackle and static of the radio as the
dispatcher said evenly, “All units, all units respond to a 2-11 at the
Base Exchange. This is a training exercise. All units respond and
acknowledge, please.” Reaching into the squad car I keyed the
mike, “Unit Adam- 17 responding,” I quickly said, hoping that Lt.
Morgan had monitored the transmission. I stayed there and
continued to lean against the car finishing my cigarette as I
watched the flashing of the red lights and heard the wail of sirens
in the distance of all the units apparently headed in the same
direction. Out in the distance I could see the squad cars parked
around the Base Exchange with their lights flashing and a lone car
headed in the other direction at a high rate of speed. I quickly
jumped into my squad car and careened down the hill with my
lights off hoping that there was no wildlife strolling in the road
that night. As I hit level ground, I caught the flash of a brake light
at the rear of the weapon armory and knew that all was quickly
coming to an end. As I braked my car, I heard a breathless pant
behind me as I saw Lt. Morgan coming at me in a full run. I
smiled as I said, “Almost late for the party, sir.” Lt. Morgan gave
me a serious look as he said, “But just in time for the hanging.”
We crept quietly around the building and we could see SSgt.
Mason with huge bolt cutters snap the lock. We sat back on our
haunches and waited as SSgt. Mason walked inside and after a few
moments, he walked out carrying a wooden case with the words
M-16A1 stenciled on the side and place it in the open trunk of his

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squad car. “Freeze motherfucker,” I yelled at the top of my voice.
“Drop it you fat little cocksucker,” yelled Lt. Morgan. SSgt.
Mason‟s face froze in shock as the glare of our flashlights
temporarily blinded him. He reached down to unsnap his service
revolver and I yelled, “Go ahead, pull it out and die… asshole.”
Trying to wave away the light, SSgt. Mason sputtered and
muttered that he had found the door open on routine patrol and
was attempting to secure the weapons. “Nice try,” said Lt.
Morgan. “Try that story in Leavenworth,” he added. Still fighting
to free himself from his predicament, SSgt. Mason started yelling,
making threats, and then weakly said, “Look, I have close to a half
million dollars in cash which I‟ll just give you, just let me walk.”
“Randy,” I said coolly, “Before you start shooting off your fat
mouth, I would love to advise you of your Miranda rights.” “You
little bastard,” screamed SSgt. Mason, “I trusted you and you‟re
going to fuck me? You little fuck, you will never prove anything.”
“Why Randy,” I laughed, “What a filthy little mouth you have.
The boys at Leavenworth are going to love your fat pig ass.
Besides,” I said adding, “The Fed‟s are over at your house now
having a look in the barn and in the house with Leroy.” “You
know, he is going to roll over on you.”
The morning after the arrests, five large trucks came into the
base covered with tarps and parked adjacent to the Provost
Marshal‟s office. I went over, lifted up the tarps to look inside, and
recognized the furniture from the Circle C ranch. Another truck
was filled with electronic equipment none of which I recognized,
except for cases of videocassette recorders. As I entered the
Orderly room, Eric Marshal was sitting there with men in dark

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suits with bulges at their side from the weapons they were
obviously carrying, looking at little squares of plastic they called
memory disks. As they put the plastic squares into the large
machine that had its own television screen, all types of writing and
formulas began to appear on the screen in green fluorescent type
print. Looking up and seeing me he said, “These,” indicating the
plastic disks, “are worth more than anything else we found.” I
could see Lt. Morgan and First Sgt. Boggs through the glass walls
of the interview office talking to field grade officers carrying
briefcases. Seeing me, Lt. Morgan came to the door and invited
me to meet the departing officers. I felt proud as Lt. Morgan gave
me accolades for the investigation I had instigated. Everything
seemed to be just so right with the world at that moment. In
reflection, I now understood what Lt. Morgan and Eric Marshal
had meant when they explained how we take off where congress
fucked up and put things back in order. On the other hand, how we
had to make things happen so our country always spins in the right
direction.
I walked over to the Provost Marshal‟s office as briefing for the
new shift was about to start. As I stood by the door, the Security
Policeman with the coke bottle glasses and pimply face broke
formation, ran over to me and said, “Did you hear about all of our
guys getting busted this morning? Yep, a bunch of Feds came
down, handcuffed every one of them, and took them away. They
were saying something about all these guys helping SSgt. Mason
and SSgt. Ramsey break into a whole bunch of places and they
were stealing guns and stuff. Can you imagine that?” he said in his
high-pitched mouse sounding voice. I looked at the ranks and

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noticed that just over half of the Security Policeman were now
gone. “Very well done,” I proudly whispered to myself.
I never did find out what happened to SSgt. Mason and SSgt.
Ramsey after the court-martial. I heard that they were sent away
for a very long vacation because of multiple charges. I often
wonder if they had become cellmates.
Yes, all is right in this corner of the world…..

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 Chapter 10
In my wildest dreams of being,
James Bond….

I
t had been six long weeks since the demise of SSgt. Mason
and his gang of misfits. I had spent much of the past weeks
trying to breathe life into small dead cases, which the
Department of the Air Force wanted reincarnated. If I was not
perusing morgues of old dusty files or trying to locate old
witnesses, I was attending classes at the Base Educational Center.
On the weekends, I had the opportunity to travel to Washington
D.C.‟s Dulles International Airport, where I was met by a couple
non-descript men who invited me into a van with the side
windows blacked out, so that my view of where we were going
was courteously obstructed. I knew that our short trip was taking
me into Virginia for I remember the curves of the road and the
rumble of the tires on the cobblestones over the Potomac Bridge.
The sound of the water rushing under the old bridge was faint with
the sounds of horns blaring and the revving engines competing

85
with one another. There was a slight dusting of the senses with the
smell of the fresh mown grass of the massive lawns within
Arlington Cemetery.
As we arrived at our destination, we were always met by a deep
penetrating voice that carried with it the odor of Old Spice. There
was always that short low conversation between the man with the
cologne and the driver of the van after which the sound of a heavy
steel door sliding up on it tracks could be heard. We drove down a
long ramp and the squeal of tires was loud on the epoxy coated
concrete floor as we made turns through the underground
passages. As we got out of the van, I was admonished from
touching anything or from speaking to anyone other than my
instructors. If I were to be spoken to, I was further instructed to
remain mute until authorized to speak by one of my instructors. I
asked the men one time if it would be easier for them if I were
muzzled like a dog, and I was just met by a condescending look of
contempt.
Classes were unique and exciting. Each weekend held intense
and comprehensive education for me by an instructor that was a
specialist in his or her field. If the first twenty-four hours of
training was a preamble to what I would learn in the coming
weeks and months, I knew that every aspect of my life as I had
known it would be changed. I was told that with the change, my
preconceived notion of life and ethics would constantly be in a
state of alteration. I tried, with little success, to convince myself
that I would not be aware of the changes, for I had yet to discover
who I was or what my true character consisted of. Each phase of
my education brought me new insight of self-awareness as I was

86
easily beginning to feel more comfortable. I thought that any
change, even drastic, would be an improvement, for I was not
happy with who I was or how I perceived myself at that time. I
knew instinctively that the true mission of the training was that the
technique and superiority of education, that included modifications
in psyche analysis, character adaptation, and systematic
psychoanalysis of the public and private conception of life was
designed to change my personality, morality, and my perception of
life forever.
An old man that had spent his many years fooling our
government and that of foreign countries with his unique talents,
was one of my earlier instructors who was teaching currency
counterfeiting. Contrary to the instructions of my superiors, the
old man and I had developed a fast friendship. With little bribes of
candies and the occasional cigarette, the old man I only knew as
George, took great pains to relate to me the intricate details of
currency that was unknown by all, except for those who hand-
engraved the original currency plates.
Personal deception classes were a highlight of my training for
they also included classes in method acting and makeup
application. My instructor, who I did not recognize, was said to
have been an actor that was well known and had been an intrinsic
part of the Hollywood film scene for a great many years.
Intelligence analysis was the concept that was to aid me in keeping
myself alive and able to instantly develop or maintain an analytical
mind in even the most harrowing situations. Many hours of
scenario role-playing made me feel confident in my own abilities,
even in the most obscure and seemingly ridiculous situations.

87
 Production of actionable intelligence was taught they say, to
save me time in decision-making and to eliminate the possibilities
of day dreaming a situation into negative consequences. The
concept was further designed to provide me with intelligence and
investigative starting points when none seemed obvious. It would
be as they say today, to think outside of the box.
Weapons that I could never in my wildest dreams of being
James Bond imagine, were shown and taught to me. Many hours
were spent on the ultra modern indoor shooting range, firing
everything from a small .38 caliber single shot handgun that
appeared to be a pen, to .44 caliber handguns designed with the
capability to kill an elephant, and further redesigned to allow for
full automatic firing. A tiny oriental woman, who I thought must
be at least eighty years old, whose wrinkled face was covered with
small wisps of white stringy hair growing from her many moles
and chattering with a strong Chinese dialect, introduced me to
covert weaponry. With these covert weapons came the knowledge
of the use of typical household items from that of a bamboo shish
kabob spear to the use of a simple plastic drinking straw to induce
death. The training brought back remembrances of simple
childhood playtimes of war games, where we used to joke that
there were a thousand ways to kill a human. Laughingly I thought
of how wrong we had all been back then, there really was only
eighty-seven approved ways to kill a man covertly and properly
disposing of the body would only add another digit to the front of
that number. I had, as a child, thought that when my Dad
threatened to make my mother disappear in a grave of lime or drop
her body into a vat of hydrochloric acid to get rid of her, he had

88
been joking on the method. I found that he had not. I also found
that I could not nor would I ever look at sausage products the same
way again. For with this acceptable way of body disposal, one
would never really know what they might be eating. Advanced
torture techniques were said to be the rage in Southeast Asia, as
this dear little old Oriental woman insisted that I be introduced to
the finer points of invasive mental and physical torture and the art
of soft death.
Training continued to be interesting even during the weeks that
were filled with the boredom of learning the popular street drugs
cocaine, heroin, LSD, and marijuana. I was amazed at the many
ways it was used and how the difference between injection,
inhaling, or snorting of the various drugs would produce an
alternate effect and its further adverse interaction with the human
body. During the entire course, I could only comprehend the use
of these drugs as an escape, yet I could never understand what
there was to escape from. Why would one want to escape from
life? My instructor appeared to be amused at my naiveté.
I did enjoy the travel between Austin, Texas and Washington,
D.C., for it gave me the opportunity to experience different classes
and styles of people. Sometimes while waiting for my return trip at
Dulles International, I would wander down to the gates where I
would sit for hours and study the passengers inbound from other
countries and their habits and customs. I would listen to unusual
dialects or accents of the language as I picked up wisps of
conversations. Even though I relished the training in Washington,
I looked forward to the return to work at Bergstrom AFB. I found

89
that with the completion of each education-filled jaunt I was able
to return to my caseload with a new perspective.
“A1C Young,” boomed the voice behind me as I intently
studied the spreadsheet before me. I turned and smiled as I saw Lt.
Morgan standing there with Alex Stone at his side. “Good
morning, sirs,” I said as I stood and saluted at Lt. Morgan‟s shiny
new chrome Captain Bars. “Congratulations on the promotion sir,”
I said indicating his shiny bars. “These bars A1C. Young are
because of the work you have done,” said Capt. Morgan as he
reached into his shirt pocket and removed an envelope. “I have
some orders for you,” said Capt. Morgan. Alex broke in, “Well big
boy, if you‟re ready to do some real work, we can go and have
some breakfast.” I looked at the spreadsheet and thought of the
long hours I had spent putting the red marks indicating the
fraudulent sections of the payroll report. “I have this report,” I
started. Alex laughed as he said, “We think what is in those orders
might offer you a bit more of a challenge.” Capt. Morgan
temptingly waved the orders at me with a smile, yet serious and
fearful look in his eyes as he said, “This is a big one. It‟s time for
graduation.” The air in the room seemed to thicken as an intense
feeling of somber seriousness filled every inch of the room. Seeing
the mood, I laughingly said, “Hey, everything will work out fine,
you guys are the ones that said I was good. Are you reneging on
your compliments?” Slapping me on the back, Capt. Morgan said
with a slight smile as he handed me the orders, “Yeah, you‟re
right, let‟s go have breakfast.”
The flight from Bergstrom to Baltimore was just about four
hours. Enough time so that I could feel the emotions of

90
excitement, worry, dread, and then to exhilaration at the thought of
my first real mission. My orders assigned me temporarily to
Walter Reed Army Hospital, as a medic, where I would only be
reporting to the Chief of Staff, Major General Gordon Randall. As
I arrived at Baltimore/Washington International Airport, I had
feelings of déjà vu for I remember coming out here as a child to
pick up my father on his return trip from Korea. The thoughts
faded though as I realized I was on my own as I looked for a taxi.
As I tried to wave down one of the ratty and rusted yellow cabs, a
plain dark sedan with deeply tinted windows pulled up next to me
and as the windowed whirred down, I saw the old face of the
barber from Bergstrom that still had that craggy look as he said,
“Remember me?” “How could I forget,” I said, jokingly adding,
“You‟re the oldest OSI agent in the world. What are you doing
here?” “Oh hell,” he started, “They thought I was getting too old
to be in the field, so they made me a desk jockey. When your
orders came across my desk, I volunteered to pick you up and
brief you. Look at these God damn paper cuts,” he said as he held
up his hands. I threw my bag in the back seat as I climbed in the
front as he plunged the accelerator to the floor and quickly sped
away from the airport and into its maze of traffic.
As the old barber guided the car smoothly and expertly onto the
Beltway and merged into the heavy yet fast moving traffic, he
turned to me and said seriously, “This is your graduation mission,
son. Don‟t fuck this up.” I looked at him with a bit of trepidation
as I asked, “Important, isn‟t it?” “Yes,” the old man replied, “Very
important.” “Then,” I quietly questioned, “why me?” “Because,”
he started, “You have the only face and innocent attitude that

91
could pull this off. It looks like it may be some down and nasty
wet work.” “Wet work?” I questioned. “Blood spilling work,
young man,” the old man answered back. I sat back and pondered
for a moment as I asked, “What have we got?”
The old barber was quiet until we pulled into the garage of a
large old frame house just outside of Chevy Chase, Maryland. As
the door closed I was aware of the heavy sound the door made as it
trembled on it tracks and closed with a resounding thud. I detected
a hollow sound as I felt the floor drop away as the car, with us
inside, lowered into a bare walled basement. The old barber smiled
as he saw the look of amazement on my face as I opened the car
door and stood there wondering what to do. He led me to a door
and upon opening it; I saw a rather plush room with a multitude of
telephones, tape recorders, and other electronic devices. Sitting at
one side of the wall, which was filled with a bank of electronics,
were three men and two women, each who wore headsets and
appeared to be intent on listening to whatever came through those
headsets. They each looked up at me, nodded slightly, and smiled
in turn as I passed. Following the old barber, we entered into what
appeared to be a small room with a large screen and a few seats
like those in a movie theater. Indicating that I should take a seat,
the old barber opened a side door and spoke softly to whoever was
in the room. As I sat and looked around, I could see that I was in,
what appeared to be, a mini movie theater. It even had the glass
portal high up to the rear of the room for which the projector
would shine its images through. I stood, as a very large and portly
man approached me and extended his hand and said with an
equally large grin, “I‟m Ron Phillips, and welcome to my humble

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bunker.” “Thank you sir,” I replied. “Sit,” he said, “let‟s get down
to business.” As Ron waved his hand in the air, the lights of the
room dimmed, and there was a flicker on the screen as the light
shown through the little portal overhead and sound came from
hidden speakers.
For the twenty minutes, I engrossed in a movie unlike any I had
seen before. There on the screen in front of me, was a
congressman that I had seen many times on television, having a
heated and threatening conversation with someone I had never
seen before. As the movie ended, I looked over at Ron and asked,
“Is this real? I mean… was that who I thought it was up there on
the screen threatening that man?” “Yes,” said Ron further
explaining, “That was the Walter Reed Medical Center, Chief of
Staff, the congressman was threatening. It seems that a certain
Colonel Adkins, who is also a doctor over at Walter Reed, got the
congressman‟s sixteen year old daughter pregnant and then
decided to give her an abortion.” “So,” I inquired, “Why don‟t we
just jail the asshole for statutory rape and put it to rest?” “Problem
is,” added Ron, “The shit made the old congressional bastard feel
like the doctor took his dignity instead of his daughter‟s pussy.
Then we have that son of a bitch anesthesiologist that had to go
bragging about the size of her tits and what he wanted to do to her
while he had her under the gas.” “So we jail them both?” I
questioned. “No,” said Ron slowly, “The congressman wants these
two handled,” adding, “He doesn‟t want this crap coming up to
bite him in the ass come voting time, to fuck up his wet dream
political aspirations.” “So, jailing them and letting them get
punked in the ass for a few years won‟t be enough?” I queried.

93
With no response from Ron, I looked at him as I quietly answered,
“We handle it.” Ron laughed as he said, “Oh no, you handle it. We
handle it and fuck it up our funding is gone. You handle it and
fuck it up it‟s your ass all alone. These boys are your baby.” Ron
motioned the old barber over and said, “Drop this young lad off at
Walter Reed. You,” he said pointing at me saying, “are assigned to
Walter Reed until you get a handle on this,” adding, “you have ten
days.…”

94
 Chapter 11
Your worst fucking nightmare come to life…

I
t was early evening as I sat in my hotel room of the River
Inn along the historic Foggy Bottom. The sounds of the
Beach Boys played softly in the background of the
comfortable room, with its privacy and dim lighting. I slowly and
methodically worked on what was the congressman‟s problem,
which had become my problem. I picked up the hotel phone and
called Major General Gordon Randall, Chief of Staff, Walter Reed
Army Hospital at home. I knew by the hesitation in his voice that
he had been expecting yet dreading my phone call. I smiled at his
futile effort, as he tried to find an excuse to put off meeting with
me. Digging through my files as I listened to him over the phone, I
found an old incident report from his early years as an Army
Officer where he had committed a rather embarrassing and career
altering transgression, which had been conveniently covered up.
Quietly, and with an even tone, I reminded the General of the
incident, “Why yes Gordon, I have that file and those pictures of
you right here in front of me. No… no Gordon, I guess they
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weren‟t destroyed like you thought.” As Major General Gordon
Randall slammed down the receiver of the telephone with apparent
fury, I smiled with the confirmation of the nine o‟clock meeting
for a cocktail in the Inn‟s bar.
As I sat and waited until the meeting, I worked with the latex
from my make-up kit. I fashioned a small scoop that would adhere
to the tip of my forefinger, which would be invisible except under
very close scrutiny. I smiled as I tested it, with the sugar from the
packets next to the coffee maker, and found that it worked
perfectly. I sat in the comfortable chair and mused for a few
moments of where I might get the cocaine I needed to pull this
situation together.
I went down to the streets of Georgetown, filled with its
formally dressed regulars and sightseers. They were the shallow
and rather narrow-minded ones that were in their own worlds,
oblivious to anything and everyone that was not in their own
snobbish social circle. As I looked up and down the clean well-lit
streets, I saw what I knew was on damn near every corner of every
big city. He stood slightly in the shadows, with his long hair,
slowly graying beard, and the always present hippie headband. He
was tall, a bit over six feet, and covered in the filth of living on the
streets for many months at a time without benefit of a shower or
other means to keep himself clean. His skinny look was that of one
that used more of the drugs than what he sold. He might as well
have been wearing a neon sign that said drug dealer. I ambled
slowly down the street watching him dart from the shadows and
out to cars that pulled adjacent to him. I watched at the quick
exchange of cash and drugs then the cars would quickly pull away.

96
My man, the drug dealer, would return equally as fast to the
shadows.
I could see the drug dealer give me furtive glances as I
approached him. I could taste the paranoia in the air as I watched
him start to hyperventilate with each step that brought me closer to
him. His short pacing and fidgeting would have a person believing
that he was attempting to stay warm in the evening air, but to me,
it just confirmed my thoughts of him holding an adequate stash of
drugs for my needs. As I passed under an old gas lamp pole giving
off its yellow glare, with many moths in its halo, I heard him
express in obvious relief, “Motherfucker, your ass, scared the shit
out of me.” Squinting and looking at me closer he exclaimed,
“Shit motherfucker, you‟re just a kid.” He questioned with a big
toothy smile and his long forgotten Berkley educated accent,
“Hey, you want to buy some shit? I got a little weed, some killer
ass coke, and a taste of the horse. Some good shit,” he added as he
looked up and down the street.
I walked up to him with a smile saying, “You best be
giving me some good shit or my daddy is going to come down
here and pop a cap in your ass.” “Hey man, all my shit is pure,”
the drug dealer said. “I been out here a long time and ain‟t no
motherfuckers ever had any complaints of Henry‟s shit.” I reached
to my back pocket, as if to grab my wallet. Henry had that anxious
and greedy stare of a score about to happen. His eyes were drawn
down as he searched the little bag he had hanging at his side for
the drugs to sell me. As his eyes cast down I grabbed his long dirty
hair, twisted him around, and kicked him against the wall. “Freeze
motherfucker, or this bullet will pop your motherfucking head like

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a grape you cocksucker,” I whispered loudly in his ear as I shoved
the .38 caliber revolver deep into the back of his neck. With the
end of the revolver never leaving his skin, I slowly turned the drug
dealer around and with his hands meekly in the air. “What do you
want?” he said with a fearful wide-eyed look. I prompted his
mouth open with the end of the gun and shoved the barrel in far
enough to make him gag. “What I want, you little cocksucker, is
for you to get your motherfucking ass off of my streets,” I said. “I
want you to quit selling this shit to those kids.” “Who the fuck are
you, motherfucker?” he tried to question with a mouth full of gun.
With a wide-eyed look of fear on his face and beads of sweat
starting to form on the hair of his upper lip, whispering very
quietly in his ear, “I am your worst fucking nightmare come to
life. I am on every street corner of every city and I am going to be
hunting your hippie ass. You‟re going to think my shit is worse
than Batman.” I ripped the small black bag from his shoulder
breaking the strap, causing small packets of a white powder
substance and large amounts of cash to spill out on the sidewalk.
He looked down and said, “That‟s my shit.” “No,” I said, “You‟re
out of business. This is evidence now. Now motherfucker,” I said
adding, “you got about one second to disappear or your ass is
going to jail. And if I see you on these streets again you‟re going
to know what it‟s like to have Batman fly up your sorry punked
ass. Now run motherfucker,” I said smiling as I watched him run
without looking back.
As I bent down to pick up the bag, I saw hundreds of dollars in
cash and thirty or forty packets of various drugs. I scooped the
drugs into the bag, taking one filled with white powder and put it

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in my pocket along with the cash. As I headed back to the hotel I
passed an old storm drain where I could hear the water rushing
through. I emptied the remaining contents of the bag into the
drain. I threw the old black torn bag into one of the many trash
cans that were lining the street. Whistling as I went down the
street, I looked at my watch and saw that I had just enough time to
make it back for the meeting with Major General Gordon Randall.
“General Randall,” I said, recognizing him from the movie
with the congressman. “I am Mr. Young and am assigned to
handle your problem.” The serious yet nervous looking man with
thick framed spectacles glanced over at me and asked, “What do
you need me for? This isn‟t my problem. I had nothing to do with
this,” he begged. “Look,” I said, “this happened in your hospital,
under your watch. Like it or not, it is your problem and you are
going to help me.” “And if I don‟t?” he questioned. “Then Gordon
Randall, you become my problem. We always have those
incredible pictures of you and Floyd. And, at the very least I
would hate to think of you freezing your ass off in Minot, North
Dakota, or some other far off rather less than exotic land that your
wife and kids might thoroughly enjoy. Hell, you could even have
an accident on the way home or your daughter could have the
school bus back up over her.” “You can‟t,” he started with raw
terror in his eyes. Interrupting him I responded quietly, “Yes, I
can. I have the authority to do whatever it takes.” Sadly looking at
me he asked dejectedly, “What do you need?”
I reported to the head nurse on the third floor, “Ma‟am, I am
Private Young, Army Medical Corps from Ft. Meade. They said
you were shorthanded and I was sent up to help with the drug

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testing.” “Oh God,” she responded, “We are swamped. For some
reason they are drug testing all the hospital doctors this morning.
Here,” she said, “Take this room. You know what to do?” she
inquired. “No problem ma‟am,” I said adding, “I‟ll even get the
samples down to the lab.”
For the next two hours, I watched the doctors urinate into the
little bottles, and I sealed them with a plastic tab and had each
doctor sign the tab to insure its integrity. I smiled as I watched
Capt. Hancock walk into the office. “This is a hell of a waste of
time,” he said, adding, “Come on, let‟s get on with it. I have more
important things to do than to let a god damned private watch me
piss.”
As I watched as Capt. Hancock urinated into the cup, I slowly
reached into my pocket where I had the open bag of cocaine. My
fingers felt the soft white powder and I pushed my finger further in
so that the scoop I had fashioned from latex the night before
picked up a small amount of the powder. Capt. Hancock turned
from the urinal and handed me the bottle full of yellow urine. I
took it from him and as I turned to set it on the shelf, I dipped my
finger into the urine at the same time letting the cocaine that I had
secreted into little scoop on my forefinger, fall into the urine. After
the necessary documentation, signatures, and security marks were
made I said, “If you would like to have a seat with the other
officers, Captain, I will have the lab run the results.” A corpsman
came and took the samples I had for the waiting officers and ran
them to the lab for analysis.
Approximately an hour after Capt. Hancock gave me his
sample of urine, a tall Army Major in a white lab coat with an

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angry look on his face walked into the room. “Who,” he asked
angrily, “is Capt. Hancock?” Capt. Hancock stood with a
bewildered look on his face and said curiously, “I am. What‟s up,
Major?” “You,” the major angrily pointed at the Captain. “Get in
my office now.” The major dismissed the other officers as Capt.
Hancock followed the Major into his office. I could see through
the open blinds of the glass walls that Capt. Hancock‟s days at
Walter Reed Army Medical Center were finished. I quietly left the
hospital and got into my car, changed back into my civilian clothes
and took the uniform in an old paper bag and threw them into the
hospital incinerator as I drove by. As I lit up a cigarette and looked
into the rear view mirror I thought of all that had transpired that
morning. “Job well done,” I said to myself. “Yes, very well
done….”

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 Chapter 12
Build the stage, dress the actor, and create the
scene…

I
had reservations at the Watergate Hotel for the duration of
my stay in Washington. Mainly for its unparallel promised
privacy, central location, and the easy access to Georgetown.
After refusing the attempts of the bellman to take my bags, which
invoked curious looks, I found my way to my suite. As I
unpacked, I also set up a motion and heat sensor perimeter alarm. I
took one of the state of the art button cameras that would record
up to sixty seconds on this little thing called a microchip, which
was interfaced with the perimeter sensors, and secreted it in the
eye of one of the hotel pictures hanging on the wall. All was
unpacked, and taking a moment to reflect on the full day‟s
activities and the amount of work yet ahead of me, I figured it was
time to take some time for myself.
That evening I enjoyed a rather exquisite dinner and the views
of the still bustling city from the tall glass windows of the hotel

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restaurant. As I leaned with my back against the bar, enjoying a
Bailey‟s on the rocks and a cigarette, I reflected on this city. From
this altitude and with this view, everything appeared to be more
grandiose than I could have imagined in my childhood jaunts
through this bastion of history.
My thoughts turned to the wad of cash in my pocket, courtesy
of Henry, as the maître‟d handed me the check. With smiling
thoughts of the eight hundred dollars I had taken from Henry‟s
little black bag, I was quite comfortable in leaving a hundred
dollar tip. As I went out to the balcony, I listened to the sounds of
the city. I looked to the Northeast at the quiet glow of Georgetown
as I thought of the work yet ahead of me. Breathing deeply and
with my eyes closed I inhaled the city, drawing its strengths and
energies within me.
As I retired to my room, I found that the bellman had already
delivered the bottle of Bailey‟s Irish Cream, turned down the bed,
and had a warm glow coming from the fireplace. I checked my
alarms and found that the bellman had not transgressed to areas
that he should not. I removed the little button camera and reset the
chip before I replaced it as I opened the Bailey‟s with a twist of
my wrist. Pouring myself a small glass over ice, I removed the
file on Colonel David Adkins.
Thumbing through the pages, I soon became aware that he was,
without a doubt, the most pompous, egocentric, sanctimonious
prick that I would probably ever meet. At age thirty-eight, he was
rather young for his rank. At six feet three inches, two hundred
and ten pounds, avid runner, cyclist, and former captain of a
rowing team, he made it apparent that it would be the brains,

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rather than brawn, that would bring about his demise. As I read the
file, I began to have an intense dislike for this Colonel David
Adkins. Eight months prior he had finished his second marriage,
because of adultery, and for unlisted reasons, the military did not
care to pursue the offense in court-martial. Since his divorce, he
had been questioned and held for the alleged, but never proven,
beating of a cocktail waitress in the alley of one of the nicer
nightclubs of Georgetown.
Going over various police reports from past three years with
his name on them, I was quietly incensed. I found that he had an
equally great affection for the bottle as he did for personal
intimidation. His last incident with the law was when he was
charged with the rape of his executive officer‟s wife. I found it
strange and yet understood as I learned more about this man, that
neither his executive officer nor the officer‟s wife ever appeared in
court to testify. This elimination was going to be much more
enjoyable than I had contemplated. What was it that they say,
“And justice for all? I do believe I can guarantee that,” I quietly
whispered to the full moon peering through the half open curtains.
I called Major General Randall at home and instructed him to
give Colonel Adkins vacation effective immediately. After several
moments of hesitation, General Randall stated, “What, you going
to get rid of him too?” “What the hell are you talking about
General?” I asked. “Well,” he started, “Seems like Capt. Hancock
got burned in a bad piss test.” “General,” I explained continuing,
“First, he was the one that pissed in the cup and he should have
known better than to be fucking around with drugs. Second, don‟t
you dare question my authority or me again. Do you understand

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me?” “The President…” the General started. “Listen General,” I
continued, “This is a lot higher than you and I. Do us both a favor
and let it go.” I repeated quietly, “Just let it go.” There was a
dejected yet acknowledging sigh on the phone as I heard, “Yes, I
guess you‟re right. The colonel will be on vacation at end of his
shift tomorrow. Just do me a favor?” he asked. “If I can,” I quietly
replied. “Just keep me out of this and when it‟s done, I don‟t want
to know anything.” I laughed out loud, as I said into the phone,
“As long as you can keep the same promise, General,” repeating
with a quiet and rather threatening whisper, “As long as you can
keep the same promise.”
I woke early and drove over to Georgetown where I walked the
streets of the historic old town. It had that old world elegance with
its narrow cobblestone streets, which were bright and alive with
life in the early morning light. For some reason I had not yet
discovered, even though the town exuded energy with its passion
of changing into the modern world, it also emanated a dark and
foreboding impression. I walked past the galleries and restaurants
of Wisconsin Avenue, which were filled with tourists and
residents alike. All appeared to relish the slow pace of the quiet
little riverfront town. Included into the step back into history were
the narrow streets lined with numerous churches, many with their
tall steeples holding the symbols of their faiths. The churches that
encompassed what appeared to be all faiths, also held a vast
number of cemeteries on their grounds. I wondered at the
coincidences of the somber effect the cemeteries had on my mood.
Was it the thoughts of the wet work I had yet to finish? As I gazed
at the headstones, covering many generations, I understood the

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somber mood that permeated this town. There was a lot of death in
this town. Maybe with a little skill and a little luck, the next death
would go unnoticed.
I walked up and down the streets until I saw what I had come
for, the small, yet exquisite townhouse of Colonel Adkins. The
squeal of hot tires, sliding to a stop on fresh asphalt, and the loud
exhaust pipes drew my attention as my eyes were caught and held
by an extremely tall blonde in a very tiny micro mini skirt. I
smiled as her legs spread, proving herself to be a true blonde, in
the effort to extricate herself through the open door of the
passenger seat of a low sitting bright red Corvette convertible. She
flipped her long blonde hair as she gave a rather disdainful look
over her shoulder at the rude driver that didn‟t even come around
to open her door, in oft time accepted gentlemanly fashion. I felt
sorry for her for just a moment, as he left her in his wake and
bounded up the steps to the front door of his townhouse. I watched
as Colonel Adkins turned at the top of the steps and gave an
impatient disapproving look at her efforts. “God,” I thought, “It is
going to be a real pleasure killing this motherfucker.”
I camped in front of Colonel Adkins‟ antique townhouse, with
its gaily-painted door and white trim. The pedestrians that filled
the shopping district of Wisconsin Avenue and M Street
occasionally distracted me with their trifling banter and strange
fashion sense. After about a half hour with the old telephone pole
digging in my shoulder, I watched as the long legged blonde came
out of Colonel Adkins front door with a disheveled look and tears
in her eyes as she waved down a cab. Looking up to the second
floor, I could see Colonel Adkins through the parted lace drapes of

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the front window as he looked down watching her climb into the
cab. As I walked away, I knew I was going to derive a distinct
pleasure in watching that grin disappear from his face. As I
continued on my reconnaissance of the neighborhood, I heard and
then saw Colonel Adkins speed away in his red Corvette,
unbeknownst to him, on his last day at work.
For the rest of the afternoon I became very familiar with the
streets and alleys in a six-block radius of Colonel Adkins‟
Georgetown townhouse. Toward early evening, I sat outside of the
old townhouse enjoying a cigarette with that now familiar
telephone pole as I watched as Colonel Adkins drove up much
slower and with a cautious attitude toward his townhouse. As he
pulled to a stop and parked, I watched as he sat there apparently
deep in thought. Was this a side of the colonel I had yet to
discover?
After a few moments, he got out of the car and walked down
the street and I followed behind him. I watched as he entered
Nathan‟s Restaurant, the exquisite aroma of Italian Cuisine
wafting from the kitchen. I followed Colonel Adkins past the
maître‟d who recognized the colonel. As the maître d addressed
the colonel by name, I followed him into the bar where he sat
alone on a stool, apparently deep in thought. During the next three
hours, I watched him get sloppy drunk rebuffing those that
approached him. How predictable of this jerk, I thought. As the
sun set, I watched the colonel stumble from his bar stool and
weave his way down the street to his townhouse. I thought for a
moment of how simple it would be to put the .22 caliber pistol
behind his ear and pull the trigger. The timing, damn the timing

107
was just not right. I sat outside the old house and watched as the
bedroom lights came on, and I knew that he was in for the night. I
spent the rest of the evening and into the late night watching the
pedestrian traffic. I marvelled at the predictability of all these
shallow and pretentious people.
As the excitement in the little town died down there came a
new and different form of life amongst the homeless people. From
a city, that just an hour prior had been filled with the formal dress
and sophistication of the wealthy, the crevices, and sewers of the
streets released the other side of humanity. One could even detect
the change of odor in the air. They crawled from their sanctuary of
the long-standing cemeteries and churches with their long
forgotten passages and crypts. They scoured the alleys like rats
looking for food in the trashcans. I smiled as a plan crept slowly
into my mind as I watched the filthy beggars that were the rejects
and lepers of this society. I watched as the late revellers recoiled in
horror and turned away at the sight of these misfits of society. I
smiled as I dropped a handful of ten-dollar bills on the ground in
front of the approaching homeless. These were, no, these are my
people. I spent the next several hours walking with them, learning.
I was up early again the next morning invigorated from a
hearty breakfast of toast and eggs. As I looked out of the window
of the small cafeteria, I watched as the little town came back to life
without a hint of what the late night darkness hid from them.
I walked down Wisconsin Avenue and saw that Colonel
Adkins‟ Corvette was still parked at the curb. I figured with his
hangover, inspired by the prior evening‟s heavy drinking, he
would not be stirring before noon. I retrieved my car from an old

108
underground parking lot and headed towards the slums of
Baltimore. I drove through the farmlands of Maryland avoiding
the beltway, to enjoy the scenic landscape that I had rare
opportunity to do as a child. I let my mind wander to the wet work
that lay ahead of me and realized how very alone I was in this
situation. There was no option for failure.
As I arrived in the outskirts of Baltimore, I could smell the
seediness of the old and quickly decaying city. As I searched for
used clothing stores in the pernicious parts of the city, I also
noticed parts of the city that were being reconstructed block by
block. It was strange to see one side of the street ultra modern and
the other side housing the worst of ghetto life one could imagine.
It appeared as though a line of demarcation had been drawn right
down the center of the street with either side not daring to cross
that line into the other world or as it appeared another dimension.
I found what I was looking for in an old Army surplus store. A
quick look revealed that I would be able to get all I needed in this
one store yet I hesitated for I did not want the bored looking clerk
to remember me. I quickly chose a filthy looking and well used
black oilskin duster with deep pockets. As I passed the racks, I
grabbed a woolen helmet liner thinking this would hide the
characteristics of my hair. Quickly paying for my purchase I left
and returned to my car. Looking in the rear-view mirror, with the
clothes and careful application of make-up, my appearance started
to change. Each store I went into my appearance was slightly
modified. After finishing my shopping, I wandered among the
indigent at the local food kitchens. There leaning against the wall
fast asleep I saw my last items of desire. Being of the same size

109
and stature, I woke the old man, offered him fifty dollars for his
worn and tread-less tennis shoes, his old torn and threadbare
woolen gloves, and his very used and filthy rope belt.
Half way back to Washington D.C., I stopped at an old Sinclair
gas station that appeared as though it might have relatively clean
restrooms. Retrieving the old duffle bag from the trunk I quickly
entered the restroom and changed back into my normal clothes.
Wondering if the stench in the air was coming from the clothes or
the filthy restroom, I removed the plastic trashcan liner from its
intended use and stuffed the old clothing I had purchased into it
before dumping it all into my duffle bag. As I opened the trunk to
deposit the duffle bag, I smiled as I realized the smell was in fact,
coming from the clothes.
Over the course of the next three days, I spent every moment of
Colonel Adkins‟ waking hours following him under various guises
to become familiar with every movement of his new and
unemployed schedule in life. I was amazed at how his shallowness
and vainness portrayed his predictability. It was becoming evident
by his pattern what would be the most effective way to insure his
elimination with minimal amount of evidence left behind.
I woke early with just two days left to complete my wet work. I
had decided on the stage in which Colonel Adkins‟ final curtain
call would be made. Now, it was time to build the stage, dress the
actor, and create the scene. I dressed the part of a young student
carrying a backpack and I easily passed for one of the young nerdy
kids that were in the local high school. Using the backpack to
conceal the equipment I would need, I rechecked the parking lot
adjacent to the running path where I was sure that Colonel Adkins

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would return the following evening for his predictable run. All
appeared to be in order and unchanged as I pulled out a one-time
use Slim Jim I had fashioned from a piece of aluminum. As I hid
this small tool along the edge of the parking lot in the grass, I also
hid a can holding about two hundred roofing nails in the nook of
an old oak tree that skirted the parking lot. I walked the path that I
knew the colonel would run. As I picked up acorns and tossed
them to the ever-present squirrels, I saw the running path gave
options of going into the woods or continuing on the path through
the streets of Georgetown. For my plan to work, that path through
the woods would be unacceptable. Knowing that the city would
take up to a week to accomplish any repairs to the park, I removed
an old rusty saw from my backpack and for the next two hours, I
surreptitiously cut the upper branches of an old maple tree and
allowed them to fall in the running path. As I proudly looked at
my work, I happily acknowledged that the branches that had fallen
onto the running path appeared to be left over from Georgetown‟s
Arboriculture Association‟s tree surgeon. I spent the next couple
of hours walking the path with the chattering squirrels and a
pocket full of acorns as my companions. Together we made semi-
quiet observations of every aspect of life and energy along that
path. Stopping at the old fountain, knowing that this would be the
primary stage of tomorrow evening‟s attraction, I checked to
ensure the filter of the pump was clean and functioning strongly. I
sat for well over an hour at that large circular fountain with the jets
shooting large volumes of water up into the air, where it would
come cascading down with a dull roar. Because of the cool air and
the mist emitting from the splash area, I was pleased to observe

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that everyone steered away from the fountain. With the wind
blowing its generous breeze, the center square had to be avoided
completely or one would hazard getting drenched. It appeared that
the only ones that would come through this area would be the die-
hard runners. Content with my observations and plans, I bid my
friends, the squirrels, au revoir and continued into the city for a
fine evening of contemplation and relaxation.
I drove slowly past Colonel Adkins‟ townhouse and saw his
corvette still parked at the sidewalk. I parked and walked slowly
down to the deli where I grabbed a newspaper and a turkey
sandwich. Reading the headlines about the ever-present conflict in
Vietnam, I watched as Colonel Adkins came bounding down the
steps and jumped over the door and into his car wearing his
running clothes. The corvette burned rubber from its tires as it
sped away from the curb with Colonel Adkins at the wheel. I
continued to read the featured news story in the headlines. It was
talking about the number of our own soldiers killed by friendly
fire. As I watched the taillights of the corvette slowly fade in the
distance, I thought that maybe Colonel Adkins‟ chances of
survival might have been better if he had gone to Vietnam.
I returned to the Watergate Hotel for a bit of relaxation. With
deep thought, I prepared myself mentally for the wet work that lay
ahead the next evening. Turning on the television, I lost myself in
the recurring episodes of “All in the Family.” Watching the
bickering and racism in this television family reminded me so
much of my own family. Had it really been less than a year since I
had left?

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 As I sat on the balcony, I felt the brisk cool evening breeze
through the thin material of my shirt. Feeling the chill and not
knowing if it was from the thoughts of the anticipated work ahead
of me or the night air, I retired to the room where the fire was
sending wisps of white smoke up the chimney. As I looked at the
wisps, I looked for a future in the telling smoke. I saw none. Was
this an omen of my life? What was it, this life that was being
trained and guided by my government, intended for? Whatever the
direction or consequence, it was better than the past. I slipped into
a deep and dreamless sleep.
I woke to the sounds of a blue jay tapping on my window.
Stretching and calling room service, I ordered coffee, eggs, toast
and a block of dry ice. I quickly showered and answered the knock
at the door to find the bellman with my order. As he placed the
coffee service at the table, he gave me a curious look as he
revealed the container of dry ice. I looked at him and smiled, “I
like my baths very cold… only way I can wake up.” With a
curious look and a shrug of his shoulder, he took the offered fifty-
dollar tip and left the room as his questioning looks turned into a
broad smile.
During the next two hours, I used aluminium foil and made the
mold for the edge of my knife. With the mold packed in dry ice I
poured water millimetre by millimetre into the mold. Honing the
edge with an emery board and returning it to the mold, the edge
grew into a formidable weapon with a razor sharp edge. Leaving
the knife packed in dry ice to harden, I abandoned the prop as I
attended to dressing the character. Removing the old clothing,
which I had garnered from various parts of the city days prior,

113
from the plastic trash bag I dressed myself. The stench was
horrendous but not near my expectations. I looked at myself in the
mirror and seeing that I looked like a young kid in an old hobo
Halloween outfit, I spent the next several hours at the make-up
table with my kit filled with latex and various hairpieces that
covered the lower spectrum of a rainbow.
Adding creases with the latex and whiskers from the hair of the
brown and grey wigs to my face added age. My teeth, never
having held any pride for me due to lack of adequate dentistry,
were easy to manipulate with custom dental prosthetics, nicotine
and black colored theatrical tooth enamel.
Looking in the mirror, I did not recognize myself except for my
eyes. I donned my oilskin duster and the old helmet liner as I
placed the only tool I would need for the evening‟s work, wrapped
in dry ice and neoprene, deep into the pocket of the old duster.
Taking a change of clothes, I placed them into an old paper bag
and exited the room. Being careful to avoid any contact with
anyone I quickly exited the hotel by the service elevator. Having
made it to the ground level with no human contact, I realized with
relief that I was famished.
I wandered down the street as I looked for the nastiest, filthiest,
grungiest, and most roach infested Mexican food restaurant I could
find to enjoy lunch. I knew I had the right diner, as I was not
refused entry or seating because of the filth covering me. I was not
disappointed as I watched the flies walking the edge of the plate
sampling the food before I had a chance to. The lunch was
perfectly awful, I happily thought, as I felt my intestines gurgle

114
with the assault on them. “Son of a bitch,” I said to myself as I
paid the three-dollar tab, “I am going to have the royal shits.”
I walked past Colonel Adkins‟ townhouse and saw that his
Corvette had not moved from the previous night. Not wanting to
consider the necessity of a backup plan, I continued on to finish
my scavenger hunt for the final necessities for my theatrical
evening. Stopping at an old Korean store, I bought a large
container of Kim-Chee and a bottle of Ex-Lax. The thin and aged
Korean gave me a strange look as he and his wife babbled in their
native tongue, pointing at me and laughing. I smiled back, as they
turned in disgust at my offered appearance of a toothless and
decaying smile. I emptied the contents of the jar of Kim-Chee into
my oilskin pocket and took little nips of the Ex-lax, for I did not
want the proverbially shit to fly too soon.
I walked down to the riverfront passing a 7-11 store, where I
bought a bottle of cheap wine, a bag of Oreo cookies, a can of
pinto beans and a block of limburger cheese. Unwrapping the
cheese, I added it to my pocket with the Kim-Chee. I knew the
intended result was working as pedestrians were taking a wide
berth around me. I continued down to the riverfront where I found
a quiet and invisible place underneath the active construction of
what one day was to become the Francis Scott Key Bridge. I hid
my change of clothes in an old construction dumpster and making
sure that I was not seen, I returned to the city.
The evening was approaching fast as I entered the park and the
head of the jogging trail. I quickly moved down the running path
and into the woods where I had cut down the branches of the trees
the day before. Recovering the yellow caution tape I hid earlier, I

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quickly marked off the primary path as dangerous thus
necessitating the oncoming runners to take the alternate path.
I returned to the entrance where I sat in the grass smoking a
cigarette and I waited for my target. I was lost in the distraction of
a woman running in very tight shorts and ample breasts bounding
with enormous nipples leading the way as I heard the familiar roar
of the pipes from Colonel Adkins‟ Corvette. Tearing my eyes from
the extraordinary sight of the woman that was giving me a
disdainful look for either my smell or appearance, or maybe both,
I watched as the colonel wheeled his way into the parking lot with
his customary detestable and flaunting manner. I could see by the
tight shorts and shirt he wore to expound his physical features that
he, as I predicted, left his billfold, pager, and keys in the Corvette.
I watched as he started the first leg of his customary two trips
around the pathway. I knew that the first trip would be the fastest
for he had to see what females were gracing the running path
today and the next would be slower to allow the object of his
intentions to catch up with him. Always on the last quarter though.
God, I loved the predictability of this asshole.
As the colonel disappeared under the canopies of the old oak
trees and down the pathway, I quickly recovered the Slim Jim and
slowly, while appearing drunk, walked over to and leaned against
the Corvette. Sliding the Slim Jim between the frame and the
window, I had the car unlocked in less than ten seconds. I quickly
reached under the seat and removed the colonel‟s wallet placing it
in a plastic baggie. I relocked the door and in a drunken manner,
stumbled away from the car. I took the one use Slim Jim and
crumpled it in my hands to dissuade any thoughts of its intended

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use. I sauntered over to the old can I had secreted in the old oak
tree the day before. Walking to the parking lot, I emptied the can
of roofing nails over the only entrance and exit to the parking lot. I
smiled as I thought of the confusion that would ensue, for any car
entering or leaving the parking lot would have its tires flattened by
the nails.
I slowly, without visible apparent purpose, took the shortcut
through the field that would take me to the portion of the running
path that would come through the city and past the old fountain.
As I walked, I finished the bottle of Ex-Lax cursing at the chalky
taste. I felt in my shirt pocket for the latex fingertips I had
fashioned the night before, and I impressed myself at how well
they fit over my own fingertips as I used a small bottle of adhesive
to insure a tight fit. Reaching into my pocket, I removed a
generous amount of Kim-Chee and spread it over the rough
material of my oilskin duster. As I walked down the now
abandoned path, I wolfed down a combination of pinto beans and
Oreo cookies further aggravating my already assaulted intestines. I
knew the chocolate milk would be the coup d'état.
As I approached the fountain, I was given wide berth by
anyone that came within fifty feet of me. The noxious smell of the
aroma I emitted was nauseating, even to me. Within moments, any
of the Georgetown snobs that were enjoying the sights and sounds
of the fountain had left the square in search of surroundings that
would be more agreeable. As I sat at the edge of the fountain with
the appearance of an early rising homeless person in a drunken
stupor, I could see the final footsteps of Colonel Adkins,
disappearing from sight around the corner on his continued run.

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Doing quick calculations in my head, I figured I had about
seventeen minutes until the colonel would return on his final leg.
It was coming time to close the curtain on this production….

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 Chapter 13
Slowly, the blood covered knife, made of ice…

I
could see Colonel Adkins approaching my position from
a good half mile away. Calculating that I had less than
three minutes with his reduced paced jog, I quickly
downed the chocolate milk giving my stomach and intestines its
final assault. I poured the remaining portion of wine over my head,
grabbed a handful of Kim-Chee, chewed it, and then let it fall
down the front of my duster instead of swallowing it. I let the wine
bottle fall to the ground, where it broke in the running path, with
the intention of the broken glass causing a runner to hesitate for an
instant.
I reached into the pocket of my duster and with the gloved
hand, I held the knife made of ice, which I cautiously removed
from is neoprene case, where it was veiled in-between the sheaf of
dry ice. With the other hand, I reached into my shirt pocket and
removed the wallet belonging to Colonel Adkins still protected in
its clear plastic baggie. I could see the colonel, working up a sweat

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at a slow-paced jog, less than a hundred yards away. As he entered
the square and my position close to the fountain with not a soul in
sight, I watched as he entered the perimeter of the noxious odor I
emitted. From his deep and labored breathing, I smiled to myself
as he inhaled the full influence of my malodorous condition,
causing him to stumble and almost fall. He turned and looked at
me while running, with utter disgust and contempt, causing him to
step on the broken pieces of the wine bottle I had thrown on the
ground earlier. I laughed inwardly as I watched him fall flat on his
ass. Apparently embarrassed, he quickly regained his footing as he
yelled back to me over his shoulder, “You think that‟s funny you
asshole? You smell like shit you fucking freak.” Smiling to
myself, I thought, not yet I don‟t asshole.
Removing his wallet from the plastic baggie, I held it up.
Yelling after him, “Hey fuck face, you lose something?” Colonel
Adkins slowed and turned while running in place looked at me
saying, “What have you got asshole?” “Looks like a brown wallet
with a bunch of credit cards,” I replied. “Fuck you,” he yelled
back and turned to run as I quickly yelled back at him, “It has
Military ID and a Virginia drivers license that say Colonel David
Adkins. Hey fuck face, if it isn‟t yours, I damn sure can use these
here credit cards real quick.” That stopped the colonel dead in his
tracks and he walked slowly toward me questioning, “Where did
you get that wallet?” I replied with sarcastic impatience in my
voice, “Shit motherfucker; don‟t be giving me no shit. You‟re the
one that dropped it out of those faggot tight shorts you be wearing
you dumb fuck.” With hatred and anger in his eyes, the colonel
walked over to me holding out his hand saying, “Give me my

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wallet asshole.” “Fuck you,” I said adding, “You ain‟t going to
give me a reward?” With hateful anger in his voice he muttered,
“Kiss my ass you homeless little freak and give me my god-damn
wallet.” Reaching for his wallet, I held it behind my back taunting
him in closer, “Come on Colonel Fuck Face, give me a few bucks,
I just need a little for a bottle of wine.”
As Colonel Adkins reached out, I held the wallet farther behind
my back necessitating him to come in closer. Gripping the knife in
my right hand, feeling the ridged cold of the handle I taunted the
colonel to come closer. “What‟s wrong faggot boy, can‟t get your
wallet from an old man you little asshole?”
Trying not to breathe, to avoid inhaling my quickly increasing
fetid stench, the colonel reached in further. In vain attempts to
reach the wallet I whined at him, “Come on Colonel Fuck Face,
just a couple bucks.” “Fuck you, you little punk freak,” he hissed
through his teeth still not wanting to inhale. “No, asshole,” I
whispered in his ear, “It‟s fuck you.” With his chest touching
mine, I dropped the wallet, took the ridged knife composed of the
many layers of ice in both hands and plunged the tip into his
taught skin just above the pelvic bone. Feeling the knife ease into
the muscle and into his small intestines gently scraping the pelvic
bone, I quickly pulled the knife up to his sternum. There was a
shocked look on his face as he rose up over me in obvious pain.
Slowly, the blood covered the knife as he began his fall to the
ground. Held up only by the knife, slowed by his internal organs, I
gently whispered in his now deafening ear, “Consider this a
courtesy of your United States Government asshole. Welcome to
the world of final justice.” Giving the knife a final jerk and feeling

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his small intestines and the remnants of his colon spill over my
hands, I backed away and let his already dead body fall to the
ground.
Looking down, I wondered for a moment if they would all die
with their eyes open. Making a mental note to ask that question of
my instructors, I looked around to insure that the last twenty
seconds the colonel and I had spent together were still private. I
reached over to the wallet I had dropped on the ground moments
before and using the plastic baggie, I grabbed it and placed it in
the rear pocket of the colonel‟s tight shorts. Taking the blood and
left over intestinal matter covering my hand, I wiped them on the
Colonel Adkins‟ shorts to give credence to any blood spatter that
may have come in contact with the wallet. Feeling the intensity of
the moment and the rush of pure adrenaline coursing through my
body with a hint of hyperventilation, I felt my intestines begin to
churn in the long overdue effort to complete its mission to expel
the concoction I intentionally consumed earlier.
Backing away from the body, keeping a wary eye for any
witnesses, I backed against the fountain taking a seat at the edge.
Seeing not a soul, I dropped the knife, which was slowly melting
from the covering of blood, into the fountain. I watched the hint of
boiling and the slight smoky mist rise from the surface of the
water as the knife, which was much colder than its predecessor
was, return to its original state of water. I listened as the pump of
the fountain churned in harmony with the water it spewed in the
air dissipating the blood residue from the knife. With great relief, I
felt my bowels empty into my pants and I smiled as I noticed that
my shit was accomplished in great fluidity. Reaching into my

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pocket, I removed handfuls of the Kim-Chee, and dropped them
into the fountain to obscure any traces of blood or human matter
that remained.
I watched, as an extremely attractive brunette whom I believed
must have been the object of the now dead colonel‟s slower pace,
enter the square. She slowed noticeably as her eyes were caught by
the figure lying on the ground. She screamed and her body
trembled, giving her rather enormous braless tits an admirable
jiggle in the quickly chilling air. Her eyes closed tightly, her
screams turned to whimpers in obvious revulsion at the sight of
the blood, and internal organs spewing out of the colonel‟s body,
as his eyes began clouding over with the rising moon as his final
sight. After taking two cigarette filters and stuffing up my nasal
passages to quell the ever-increasing stench, I reached into the
front of my pants, removed a handful of excrement, generously
spread it onto my helmet liner, and down along my face and neck.
“Damn,” I said to myself in disgust thankful for the slight filtering
effect, “I can‟t ever say that my shit doesn‟t stink.”
I sat there, at the edge of the fountain with a dazed and
stuporous look. Other pedestrians apparently attracted by the
young woman‟s screams entered the square. Knowing from prior
reconnaissance that my just walking away would be futile and
would put me as the object of a pursuit by the Washington D.C.
Police, I sat at the fountain with the image of being in a drunken
stupor. Each time one of the on-lookers, dressed in their evening
finery addressed me, I slowly reached into my pants for more
excrement causing them to quickly retreat. By the time
Washington D.C. Police arrived, I had obscured any visible trace

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of the colonel‟s blood with the shit. At the same time I had
encouraged a rather large perimeter around me. Only those brave
enough to approach and attend to the body lying in its slowly
coagulating self broke it.
I watched as the detectives arrived and began questioning the
crowd. Each of the detectives looked at me and intentionally
looked past me in effort to avoid having to approach me for
questioning. It was inevitable that one of the older detectives
approached me. “Hey buddy, you got a cigarette or maybe a dime
I could have?” I questioned with a drunken tone. “What did you
see?” the detective gagged out in apparent revulsion as the full
impact of my smell hit him. “I seen,” I replied as I pulled another
handful of shit from my pants and wiped it on the side of the
fountain, “That none of these fucking restaurants in this city will
let a man in to take a shit.” I smiled inwardly as the detective that
had most likely seen everything imaginable on the street, turn
from me and vomit into the fountain. I guess that old boy just
really contaminated any evidence that might have been in water.
Turning from me while wiping bile from his mouth with the
back of his hand, he called over to one of the rookie police officers
in uniform, “Print this jerk and get a statement from him,”
indicating me with a jerk of his thumb. The young police officer
approached me with a metal box from which he removed a finger
print card and a pad of ink. Trying not to inhale my stench, he
gingerly grabbed my hand in a futile effort not to contaminate
himself with my excrement. As he looked at the tips of my fingers
caked with the shit, he turned and wailed at the old detective,
“Come on Lieutenant, the only prints I can get off this guy is shit

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stains.” At this point, I pretended to pass out and the old detective
said, “Get that asshole out of my crime scene.” The young police
officer motioned to another and they took my arms on either side
and lifted me to my feet simply stated, “Get the fuck out of here.
You come back, and we‟re going to send the paddy wagon for you
and haul your drunken ass down to the tank.” I walked slowly into
the depths of the city with a drunken swagger until I reached the
river encompassing the construction area of the bridge.
Quickly I jumped into the freezing depths of the Potomac
River. Feeling the strong current slowly wash away the filth and
hidden remnants of my accomplished wet work, I removed my
clothes and let them float and slowly sink in the depths of the
expansive river. Peeling the latex tips from my fingers, tearing
them into indistinguishable strips, I smiled with the knowledge
that there was nary a fingerprint of mine at the crime scene.
Quickly donning my clothes that I had hidden earlier, I smiled at
the still abandoned construction sight as I walked the edge of the
river to my car.
I sat on the balcony of the Watergate Hotel with the waxing
moon high up in the chilling night sky. Enjoying a fine feast and
my usual Bailey‟s on-the rocks, after a very hot and cleansing
shower, I reflected quietly of the past ten days. I smiled as I
looked over the city lights. I felt a sense of peace and contentment
as I realized that even though the job was courtesy for a rather
self-centered congressman, in the end there had been justice for
all….

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 Chapter 14
Remember, there are no rules….

I
t felt good to return to the familiarity of Bergstrom AFB.
Feeling as though I had been gone for months instead of
twelve days was rather unnerving. “Good morning A1C
Young,” said Capt. Morgan leaning from his door as I walked into
the Orderly room. Nancy looked up with a sparkle in her eyes as
she looked at me saying, “Christ, you look like you aged five years
in the last two weeks.” Interrupting Nancy‟s comments, Capt.
Morgan asked, “Everything go okay in Washington?” “Very well
thank you, sir,” I replied ignoring Capt. Morgan as I looked at
Nancy with a new and keen interest. “Okay love birds, on your
own time,” laughed Capt. Morgan.
“First Sgt. Boggs, you want to come in here with A1C Young?
Have a seat gentleman.” Reaching into his desk Capt. Morgan
pulled out an envelope and tossed it to me. “Open it,” he said. I
opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper along
with a pair of sergeant stripes. Holding the stripes in my hand, my
first thought was that I would be immediately dispatched on a new
mission. A mission which would require me to go undercover as a
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sergeant? Giving First Sgt. Boggs and Capt. Morgan a questioning
look I said, “Don‟t give a guy much time to rest do you?” Capt.
Morgan nodded, indicating that I should read the orders. Looking
down, I read that I had been promoted to the rank of Sergeant, E-4,
effective date of orders. “Uh, Captain… sir… this says that I have
been promoted to sergeant. Thank you very much sir, but aren‟t
you going to get some heat for my making sergeant in less than a
year?” “Son,” Capt. Morgan said gently as First Sgt. Boggs
beamed, “I should be the one thanking you. I got a dispatch from
the pentagon telling me your work in Washington was exquisite
and without flaw. I understand they were shadowing you the
whole time and you made us look good and thanks to a certain
congressman we have all the funding we could ever want.” First
Sgt. Boggs added, “You already earned a reputation among the big
boys. They want to give you the code name, Smoke.” “Smoke,” I
pondered. “I like it. But, I have a problem. I didn‟t see anyone
shadowing me. That means I really screwed up.” “That,” indicated
Capt. Morgan, “is why you go back to school in a couple weeks.”
The fraudulent payroll report that I had been working on before
I had left was sitting in my inbox just waiting for me. For the next
month, my time was spent finishing the spreadsheet and preparing
the charges for prosecution of the base payroll officer for his part
in the fraudulent report. In the interim, I was running back and
forth between Bergstrom AFB and Lackland AFB, trying to cram
in as many classes of law enforcement principles that I could.
I hit it off well with Maj. Dick Morris, the Weapons Officer at
Lackland AFB. I was assigned to his training squadron for three

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weeks where I received concentrated training on sniper tactics and
attended a Prisoner of War survival school.
During the first several days, I received rigorous training in the
use of the Springfield Armory M21 tactical rifle. A rotating bolt,
gas operated, air cooled, semi-automatic, ten round magazine fed,
7.62 NATO caliber rifle. After many hours with the sniper rifle,
Maj. Morris had me spend an equal number of hours doing the
same thing with an M-16 rifle. “If you end up in Vietnam,” Maj.
Morris explained, “with this weapons knowledge you will always
have an out for the kind of combat fighting the grunts do. You will
be among the elite and respected. Always remember, one shot…
one kill.” By the end of the fifth day, I was consistently putting
rounds into a target the size of a dinner plate or human head, at a
thousand yards.
Before I would be allowed to finish the course, or in the
Major‟s terminology graduate, I also had to make a Ghillie suit
that would enable me to complete a simulated sniper mission to
the Major‟s satisfaction. Using old burlap, leaves, grass, and
various colored rags I spent several hours making the suit that
would keep me camouflaged in the dense swamp area that was to
be my final training grounds. If I were to graduate, I would have to
exist in the swamp for seventy-two hours and simulate the
execution of twelve Vietnamese high-ranking officers without
being caught. “No problem Major,” I said as he was explaining the
scenario. “One little catch,” Maj. Morris smiled adding, “There
will be an entire squadron of Security Police hunting you. They
catch you… you fail.”

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 The next three days were electrifying and exceptionally tedious
at the same time. During those seventy-two hours, each second
seemed to last an eternity. I found that every moment was a
combination of waiting, becoming one with the earth, and a pure
adrenaline rush as you found, acquired, and eliminated your target,
just to sink back and become one with the earth again. The
execution was the easy part. The living without a cigarette and
having to be aware of every odor or sound you emitted was mind
numbing and that damnable Ghillie suit itched like a bitch dog in
heat. I decided long before I finished that course that I would
rather be in the bush fighting standing up rather than lying in wait
eating bugs and grass because a damn burger gave you body odor
which could be smelled a half mile away.
I did graduate the course and the Major smiled with
satisfaction. I explained to him that the Air Force could take the
sniper course and shove it where the sun does not shine. “Major,” I
said, trying to explain, “I really don‟t like people, sir. But damn
sir, I could not spend my life in the dirt like that.” “It does take a
special breed. I do believe you are going to like this next course
though,” he added with a grin. “I‟m going to train in the prisoner
of war camp?” I asked with eager anticipation.
Not answering me, we got into a jeep and drove about sixty
miles into the country to a field that was nestled on the edge of a
dark and ghostly looking swamp. I was in awe at the remote
feeling of what was in reality so close to civilization. It was as if
we were in another world. As we drove deeper into the swamp, we
came upon a small village. It was though we had been transported
in time and location. Looking out of the dirty windows of the jeep

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it appeared as though I was seeing the actual villages of Vietnam
that were constantly being shown on the evening news.
Maj. Morris put his fingers to his lips, cautioning me not to
speak. Using hand gestures, he guided me through the camp. I
could not believe the phenomenal detail of the huts, foliage, and
even the pit type cages that were designed to contain prisoners.
Passing one hut and looking inside, I could see through the open
door what appeared to be an American officer with the rank of
major on his collar tied to a pole by his hands with his feet
hanging an inch or two off the floor. I could see tears running
down his face from his blindfolded eyes as he begged for mercy.
There were three soldiers dressed in black uniforms standing just
inside the doorway. As they looked out the door and gave us
arrogant smiles, I saw that two of the soldiers appeared to be
American and one was of Southeast Asian decent. I stopped and
stared as the soldiers continued on their mission of prodding and
verbally ridiculing the young officer. “Mind your own affairs,”
said Maj. Morris as he nudged me to keep moving. As we passed
by one of the pits, which were covered with bamboo poles,
efficiently making a cage, I could hear the whimpers and cries of
the soldiers that were housed there.
We continued through the replicated Vietnamese village to a
steel Quonset hut that had numerous antennas and electrical cables
coming from it. Opening the door which was being guarded by a
big burly Security Policeman, we went inside where we were met
by an older muscular man talking in a strange dialect to a young
Vietnamese man. “Sgt. Young, this is Phillip Easton, Department

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of Defense. This little yellow runt is Nhaˆt Duong. They will brief
you on the operation here,” said Maj. Morris.
The little yellow runt grinned up at me with a toothless smile
from his seat at the table, as I stared at him. Phillip Easton said,
“Nhaˆt Duong was an officer assigned to the POW camps in
Hanoi. What we have here is a replication of an actual POW camp
right out of the jungles of North Vietnam. The officers that come
here are from all over the country and they are on their way to
Vietnam.” I looked at the maps that showed the extensive grounds
of the mock camp asking, “How real is it?” “So real,” explained
the Major, “That the officers have no idea what part of the country
they are in and also no idea how long they will be here. We have
the course set up for seven days. But, most crack within five.”
“What do you mean by crack?” I interrupted. Mr. Easton laughed
and then with a serious look said, “By the end of the seventh day,
some of these guys are going to tell you everything from the name
of their kids to the time they jacked off in their momma‟s panties.”
“What happened to that stuff about only giving your name, rank,
and serial number?” I asked. The Major again laughed as he said,
“You‟ll learn fast. That concept didn‟t work in either of the World
wars or Korea. It‟s just something they tell you to try to do but is
never expected. Most of these guys are rookie pilots that have
never seen nor could they ever imagine combat outside of flight
school. The most quantifying issue we work for here is to make
them scared to death of being caught. It is also our responsibility
to give them the tools, knowledge, and fear of God that if they are
captured, it would be in their best interests to escape. That way
they will remember their escape and maneuver tactics.” “So you

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really can‟t fail this course?” I asked. Nhaˆt Duong looked at me
with a harsh look saying, “You lose about fifteen to twenty percent
because they turn traitor.” “Bullshit,” I exclaimed. “These are
Americans you little yellow asshole. We don‟t turn traitor.” “Want
to bet G.I.?” he smiled at me. “Don‟t take that bet Sergeant,” said
Mr. Easton. “It might surprise you how the psyche reacts with
extreme depravity and no rules.”
We walked through the camp as Phillip Easton explained the
rules. “First,” he said, “There is no rank. Second, there are no
rules. Third,” he said continuing, “It is your job to break them. If
they make it through and they are captured in the „Nam, you‟re
going to wish real hard that you washed them out. Because if they
are captured you‟re going to have to live with the knowledge that
they will probably spend years taking just a small percentage of
what we give them here.”
For the first evening at the POW camp, I could not believe the
abuse I was seeing. I was further startled that the soldiers issuing
the abuse appeared to be enjoying it. From the shadows I watched
as a young flight officer with a burlap hood covering his head was
being urinated on. He struggled to free himself but his hands being
bound to a pole over his head, effectively held him in this position
of humility. When the young officer complained, he was kicked in
the groin causing a primal scream of pain to emanate from the
officer‟s already swollen vocal cords. Walking through the camp, I
watched as the officers were fed rice from wooden bowls that
were crawling with maggots and flies. “Mr. Easton,” I asked
quietly, “Aren‟t you afraid of poisoning these guys with those
maggots and crap or kicking their nuts in?” “You have a lot to

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learn Sergeant. You become a prisoner of war, you‟re going to
wish you had maggots to eat. Those little guys have lots of protein
in them,” he said adding, “and, if they don‟t come back alive, they
aren‟t going to need those nuts now, are they? Remember, no
rules. It‟s up to you guys to teach these pilots to survive.”
I found it rather strange how quickly I adapted to the camp.
After a hot breakfast, I walked over to the pit in the ground that
housed our POW‟s. Looking down at them, one of the officers
muttered, “One day I am going to get out of here and I am going to
remember you, you little bastard. I‟ll fucking kill you
motherfucker.” “Well,” I said as I pissed onto his head from the
bamboo grate covering the pit, “Maybe after you watch me fuck
your mother.” “Fuck you, I‟ll kill you,” he screeched as Nhaˆt
Duong came up to me saying, “His file says his mother died when
he was an infant.” Looking down at the officer I spit on him and
said, “Maybe I‟ll go dig up your momma‟s grave and fuck her
corpse? Hell, I am used to dead pussy anyway.” Raw anger and
hatred showed in the young officer‟s eyes as the adrenaline kicked
into his sinewy body. Reaching up he worked the straps on
wooden cage almost getting the rawhide straps apart as that little
yellow runt stepped on his fingers and broke a couple of them with
a snap. Looking at me with his big grin he said, “No rules.”
I found that it came easy to fall into the pattern of abuse of
these officers. I did not stop to wonder why I was deriving this
sick pleasure, but in a sense, I knew it was a payback. Payback for
all the abuse I received when I was younger. It didn‟t matter to me
that I was paying back the wrong people. Rather, it was just the
notion that I was paying back somebody. Consequently, I became

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very good at the training and Nhaˆt Duong and his buddies
laughing at my eagerness and attention to detail, gave me the
nickname YoungˆToi. They said that I would have made a great
North Vietnamese officer.
I sat in the light of the full moon as it rose high overhead.
Smoking a cigarette and watching the dancing shadows over the
eerie swamps, which were created by the trees swaying in the
slight breeze, I paused to reflect over the past few days. It bothered
me that the Vietnamese training officers thought that I would
make a great North Vietnamese officer. I thought I had projected
the image of God, country, and all that other crap.
“Deep thought there sarge?” asked Phillip as he walked up.
Looking up I said, “Yeah, kind of bummed. That little yellow
fucker and his buddies think I would make a great North
Vietnamese officer. Kind of makes me feel like a traitor.” Phillip
smiled in a fatherly way as he said, “I can understand the
confusion. But you really must take it as a compliment.” Leaning
against a tree and lighting up a cigarette as he took a long
reflecting swig of his Budweiser he added, “You really should
take it as a compliment. They have a history going back to 257 BC
when Vietnam was know as Van Lang. And ever since 111 BC
when China conquered what today is know as North Vietnam,
there has been hardly a year where there was no war.” Phillip gave
a slight smirk as he added, “Those poor little yellow bastards have
been fighting the French from 1861 until they finally drove those
frogs out in 1954. All they know is war. Now we come in and
stick our noses in there.” “Well,” I questioned, “aren‟t we in
Vietnam to stop the spread of communism?” Phillip shook his

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head slowly as he stared up at the night sky saying, “Now
seriously, can you imagine Vietnam coming over here and
spreading communism? They are a third world country. No, our
government is getting something out of it and neither you nor I are
privy to what that is. So we just go and do our jobs.” “Yeah, I
guess you have something there,” I wistfully answered back.
With the influence of Nhaˆt Duong, his little band of misfits,
and the more experienced instructors, we turned that camp into a
living hell. With the combination of sleep deprivation and the
constant mental and physical abuse, our failure rate among the
officers was rather high. We found amusement in certain torture
tactics that were commonly used, making me feel strange that I
would find humor in the officers being tortured. We had
blindfolded some and after hours of torture, we had them
convinced that they were having one of their comrades putting
their cocks into their mouth rather than the warmed hotdog we had
for lunch. Or we would take an officer, strip him down naked and
place him on his knees in what looked like the old stocks from the
pilgrim days. Then, Nhaˆt Duong or one of his boys would take a
polish sausage and make the officer believe he was about to have a
cock shoved up his ass. We all laughed when one the officers earn
him self a discharge when he grew an erection in his apparent
enjoyment of the thought of the sausage going up his ass.
However, we also had a very serious aspect. Mr. Easton,
emphasizing reality, said in a serious tone, “This has got to be as
real as it gets. I don‟t want any of these guys to have a situation
they can‟t deal with if they get captured. Use your imagination and
work these guys.”

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 Sleep deprivation for the officers‟ entire training was the most
common form of torture. We experimented with a myriad of
techniques to keep the officers awake. We found that the constant
blare of air horns, loud music, or a gentle electric shock worked
well and would usually lead to some very startling results. The
torture and its effect seemed so entertaining to our innocent young
minds. The most general effect of sleep deprivation started with
irritability followed by blurred vision, slurred speech, and total
confusion. Nhaˆt Duong, in his chopped Vietnamese accent said
with a warning, “You be careful G.I., he get sick or start seeing
strange things, he maybe going to die. You stop before then or you
boys be in big shit.”
One of the more traumatic tortures I was able to develop was a
mock execution. As I developed this concept, I was unaware of the
deep psychological impact. I thought it to be more in the realm of
a Halloween prank. As I explained the concept to Nhaˆt Duong
and Phillip Easton, I was met with strange looks as Nhaˆt Duong
replied, “You one sick fucker G.I. I say that idea long time ago to
Mr. Easton and he say no good. Now, white boy says idea is good,
so maybe you say okay Mr. Easton?” “You are going to be
treading into new territory Sgt. Young. Are you ready to go there
and accept the consequences?” “I believe so,” I quietly replied
wondering if I really had any idea what the hell I was doing.
Nhaˆt Duong and his little rat pack picked out one of the
officers that proved to be resistant to any of our techniques
throughout the entire course. I explained to the other soldiers that I
recruited from the ranks to help me in my little experiment, “This
mock execution is a method of torture, whereby the subject is

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going to be made to believe that he is about to be executed. What
we are going to do is blindfold him, make him dig his own grave,
and convince him they we have been on this exercise so long that
we, ourselves, have gone crazy. Then, we are going to put him in
the stocks and let him hear us execute one of his buddies.” “Are
you fucking nuts?” said John in desperation. “No dumb shit, we
aren‟t really going to kill someone. He is just going to hear the
screams, the gunshot, the body falling, and then being dragged
away. You sissy boy,” I said indicating to John, “You can be our
target.”
Taking the officer, a Lt. Colonel, that was due to graduate and
rotate out of training that afternoon, we put him into the stocks.
The officer, having been on sleep deprivation for the entire course,
made him easy to manipulate into the stocks. I looked at him in
awe as he still maintained enough fortitude to still maintain a
cocky personality. After splashing water into his face to insure that
he was fully conscious we went into our little act. We took one of
the officers that the Lt. Colonel had spent a great deal of time with
and had taken under his wing with psychological aid. We marched
him squealing like a little girl past the Lt. Colonel. As the young
officer was led to the rear of the stock and out of view of the Lt.
Colonel, he was gagged and quickly led away through the rear part
of the jungle and John took his place.
For the next hour, while trying to control our laughter, we
made the sound effect of beating and slapping the officer around.
John did an excellent job with his cries and blubbering as Nhaˆt
Duong took the chicken he decapitated earlier and squirted blood
over the Lt. Colonel‟s head and onto the ground in front of him. I

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figured things were going a little far when I heard the snap of
bone. Looking down I saw that the Lt. Colonel had broken his
wrist in his futile efforts to extricate himself from the stocks. I
motioned to John that we had to bring this to a conclusion, and
indicated that it was time for him to “die.” With a smile on his
face John screamed, “Oh god, oh god damn you shot me,” as I
pulled the trigger on the gun and shot a round into the air. John
dropped to the ground while trying to keep from guffawing out
loud. Holding my finger to my lips I fired another round in the air
saying, “Die you little bastard, I hate you fucking officers.” Before
we could add the sound effects of John being dragged off into the
brush we looked down and the Lt. Colonel lay there limp. “Oh
shit, he died of a heart attack,” I said as I looked at the Lt. Colonel
and smelled the excrement and saw urine soaked pants. “Oh
motherfucker, we scared him to death,” I said as I stood up pacing
and wondering how in the hell I was going to explain this. Nhaˆt
Duong looked up at me with a smile as he said, “He not dead G.I.,
you just scare the shit out of him.” Looking down and peering
closer I was relieved to see that I could indeed see the Lt.
Colonel‟s chest moving up and down in an even rhythm. “Let him
loose,” I said. “He has earned this sleep.”
For the officers that survived past the fifth day, training became
more intense. We would allow a select number of the stronger
officers to escape into the swamp. Knowing that should they make
it to civilization they would automatically pass the course, made
their efforts fervent.
As the officers escaped, we would initiate a hunting party.
Using high-powered dart rifles, we shot feathered darts that would

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put the intended target into a deep sleep. At one point, we allowed
an officer to escape and as we shot him with the dart, he fell into a
coma like sleep. The drug did its intended duty and we were able
to carry him back to the base camp where we bathed him, shaved
him, dressed him in a hospital gown, and placed him in a
makeshift hospital setting.
Even though the torture method of isolation was not available
to us because of the limited time of the course, we woke the young
officer and two hours later successfully convincing him that he
was coming out of a coma that he had been in for the last six
months. There was raw terror in his eyes as we told him that
during his coma, which was caused by a training exercise gone
bad, his wife and child had been killed in an automobile accident.
We also added that he had lost his home and possessions from a
fire that had occurred just three weeks prior. Further attempting to
bend his mind, we further convinced him that he had been
discharged from the Air Force and his medical treatment was
being continued in a Veterans Hospital.
We watched through one-way mirrors as the confusion grew in
the officers darting eyes and screwed up facial expressions. I
questioned, “What is the purpose of this? Why are we fucking
with him so bad?” “Do you know what your limits are?” asked
Phillip. “No, I don‟t think so,” I replied. “Neither does he,” said
Phillip indicating the officer behind the mirror adding, “When you
have multimillion dollar equipment and highly sensitive
knowledge, you may not want to learn what your limits are, but we
damn sure do. Better to find out here and figure out how to deal
with it, rather than with a bunch of gooks in a POW camp.” I

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watched the young officer sit up and put his feet over the edge of
the bed as if to stand. “John, go in there and tuck him back into
bed. Put the restraints around his wrists,” said one of the officers
to John, one of the black clothed soldiers. As John walked into the
room, the young soldier looked up at him with a terrified look,
took the glass filled with water at his bedside, and smashed it
against the table. Taking the long jagged edge of a piece of glass,
the young officer quickly pulled it along side his neck effectively
slicing through the carotid artery. “Oh fuck, oh shit, oh god damn,
motherfucker, that son-of-a-bitch just slit his own friggin‟ neck,”
screamed the soldier to the one-way mirror as he tried to staunch
the gush of blood that squirted from the young soldier‟s neck. We
rushed into the room, Phillip, with a pained and anxious look on
his face, tried to hold the arteries together as his face and hands
became covered with the blood. “Christ,” he screamed, “Get me a
damn medic in here stat.” An older tired looking officer rushed
into the room pushing Phillip out of the way yelling, “Suction,
give me some god damn suction in here.” We all watched as the
doctor worked and we hoped as we watched the spurts of blood
stop. Turning, the doctor said, “He‟s dead, I‟m pronouncing him,”
as he looked at his watch, “11:47 a.m.” Looking at us in disgust he
said, “You boys just fucked another one up. What did you do to
him this time?” He shook his head as he walked away questioning,
“You boys ain‟t ever going to learn, are you?”
The mood in the camp was down. We all sat quietly eating
dinner in the mess hall each deep in our own thoughts. “Snap out
of it,” yelled one of the officers. “That man was weak,” he said
continuing, “He didn‟t have it in him. Do you want to bet your

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lives and your fellow soldiers on some asshole that will freak as
soon as his mommy turns out the night light? You people suck it
up, get your asses out there and tend to those other guy‟s with
more fortitude. Now move it… move it.”
We all nodded in agreement, as we left the mess hall with our
dinner half eaten. As I walked and looked at my fellow soldiers, I
knew that the death was still eating at them the same way it was
me. It would be a while before we would be able to forget the
sight of the blood and death. Nevertheless, I did have to agree as I
said to myself, “The little pussy whipped officer was weak.”
It was a strange and refreshing feeling to finish training at the
POW camp. I felt a sense of reluctance at leaving, as I knew that
one side of me would miss the excitement, control, and drama. Yet
the other side, which for some strange feeling was not near as
strong, was a sense of relief. I wondered at the combined emotions
that gave me a foreboding feeling that this was just a prelude of
things yet to come. What were again just a couple weeks, felt as
though it were much longer. Was it normal for time to slow down
like this?
I looked into the side mirror of the jeep as we left the makeshift
village with its deep hidden secrets. Wondering, what would
become of this place when the war was over? Maybe one of those
miniature golf places that seemed to have sprung up all over the
country? Maybe it would return like the soldiers that died there in
training, to the dust it came from? I knew the psychological impact
would haunt me in some way for years to come. But then again,
maybe not….

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 Chapter 15
Ladies and Gentleman, welcome to World
Airways…

T
he air was crisp and cool on the eighty mile early
morning drive up Highway 35 back to Bergstrom
AFB. The 1967 Chevrolet Chevelle SS cruised easily
with its 454 humming and its four-speed gearbox shifting
smoothly. As I sat in the comfortable leather seats with the
convertible top down and the wind blowing through my hair, I
enjoyed the exhilaration of life that I was feeling. For once in my
life, I truly felt free. The course I had just completed at Lackland
AFB gave me a new perspective and dimension of life.
I pressed the accelerator to the floor and watched the needle
push past the ninety mile-per-hour mark with the engine begging
to approach ninety-five. Happily obliging the imploring engine, I
glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw a speck in the distance
that appeared to be matching my speed. Pushing the accelerator
further to the floor and praying there would be no cops, I let the

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speedometer climb easily past one hundred. As I crested a hill, I
could see the speck in the distance still trying to match my speed,
as it grew larger in the distance.
I wondered if someone was chasing me or if it was just
someone else also enjoying the early morning air and empty roads.
I slowed and twisted the wheel hard as I braked to bring the car
into a spin. Almost losing control, I reached under my jacket,
pulled out my gun from the shoulder holster, and put it on the seat
next to me as I accelerated slowly going back the direction I had
come. As I crested the hill, I saw a blur going past me the other
way at well over one hundred miles-per-hour. Laughing and
looking in the rear view mirror, I thought about him trying to
chase me when now I would be behind him. Watching the car in
my rear view mirror, I saw smoke rise from the tires of the fast
breaking car. “Oh shit, that motherfucker is looking for me,” I said
to myself as I reached over to the seat and got a good grip on my
gun that was now on my lap. Laying his foot on the accelerator,
causing the tires to spin and smoke to rise from his burning tires,
he came back toward me. Knowing that shit was about to go
down, I looked up and down the freeway. Seeing that it was
deserted I spun the car across the highway effectively blocking
both lanes. Jumping from the car and holding the gun down at my
side, I waited at the hood of the car as I nervously lit a cigarette. I
thought the shiny lime green car was going to slam into my own
when the driver twisted the wheel and expertly made it slide to a
stop right next to mine. Trying not to show my admiration at his
skill, I squinted as I looked through the side window at the now
familiar driver.

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 “You son of a bitch,” I said with a smile as I reached out my
hand to the old barber. “We really do meet at the strangest of
places. Last I heard, you were stuck behind a desk.” Looking at
me with a smile the old barber said, “Oh, they let me come out and
play every once in a while.” Tucking the gun back into my
shoulder holster, I whistled at the lime green Plymouth
Roadrunner the old barber was driving. “This baby‟s got a 426
Hemi and she‟ll pop a ¼ mile in the low 13‟s,” the old barber said
with a broad grin. Looking at the grey Roadrunner decal on the
rear I asked, “This is one of the early ones, isn‟t it? I would think
that it would be a little much for you,” I continued with a grin.
“Caught your young ass now didn‟t I?” he replied with a
mischievous grin.
We agreed to go down the road and meet at Sambo‟s
Restaurant just outside of Austin. “I have some information for
you and we have to talk,” the old barber said with a serious but
light hearted twinkle. We both raced back the last forty miles to
Austin praying that all the cops were still at the donut shop
enjoying their early morning coffee. As we pulled into the parking
lot of the restaurant, the old barber motioned me to park next to
him under an old shade tree toward the rear of the building. After I
put the top up on the convertible, I walked to the door that the old
barber was holding open for me and we grabbed a booth in the
back. Ordering coffee and eggs, the old barber started, “You are
finished at Bergstrom AFB.” “Why, what happened?” I asked
slowly with a bit of trepidation. Smiling at me the old barber said,
“No fear,” as he handed me a sealed envelope. Taking the
envelope and examining it closer I noticed that it had a multi

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colored wax seal over the flap. “What‟s this?” I asked. “Orders,”
he said repeating, “Orders that you are not to open until you are in
the air on the final leg of your journey.” “And where is that to?” I
questioned. “Finish breakfast and we will go for a ride,” said the
old barber.
We drove down Highway 35 in the Roadrunner with the
windows cranked down and Paul Anka crooning tunes over the
radio as the engine just purred in the background. “Forget about
Bergstrom AFB,” said the old barber adding, “It has never
happened and you were never there.” “Yeah, but I made some
great friends,” I said quizzically. The old barber looked at me with
a rather sad expression as he said gently, “As of this morning, if
you walked in the door back there, no one would acknowledge you
and they would deny having ever met you.” “Nancy would…” I
started. “No Trent, she would not, she is a true professional. Hell
son, you could see her again in six weeks or six years and you
would never detect a trace of recognition.” “That fucking sucks,” I
said with a slight moan as I thought of how close Nancy and I had
become. “Yeah, sometimes it does really suck. But that‟s the
business we chose.” Looking at me, he said very emphatically,
“and so did you Sarge.”
We drove down the highway as I stared out the window in deep
thought. “One god damned time I really let someone get half-assed
close and I have to leave,” I said quietly to myself and added to
the old barber, “It really does suck.” We switched places and I
drove the Roadrunner back to the Sambo‟s Restaurant asking, “So
where is the first leg of this journey?” “Well,” said the old barber,
“First, we are going back to your car and we are going to remove

145
every trace of you having owned it. Then, we are going to put the
key in the ignition and leave it there.” “But I paid a grand for that
car,” I pleaded. “Not going to need a car where you‟re going,” he
said with a knowing smile. With a prying grin, I questioned again,
“And where would that be?”
Ignoring me, he opened the door to the still idling Roadrunner
and approached my soon to be defunct Chevelle with a small tool
kit and a bottle of alcohol. Looking like a little pack rat, he seemed
to be all over the car at once. Removing pieces here and there,
dropping them into the little pouch at his side, and then wiping all
the surfaces with a rag covered in bleach and alcohol. He indicated
for me to toss him my keys, which I did, and he carefully removed
the ignition key and placed it into the ignition wiping the door
handle with the rag as he closed the door. Looking at me with a
satisfied smile he asked, “Ready?” “Ready as I‟ll ever be,” I said
as I slowly pushed on the accelerator watching my car disappear
through the rear-view mirror. “Did you get my shit out of the
glove box?” I asked. “Yes sure did,” he said as he held up a paper
bag with what appeared to be a just a few objects in it and tossed it
out the window. “What the fuck?” I yelled, “That‟s my shit.”
Smiling at me with amusement the old barber said, “That‟s from
your old life. You have a new life now, son.”
We drove down the road with the old barber giving me
directions but refusing to give me the destination. “Well if I can‟t
go back to Bergstrom, what about my clothes and stuff?” The old
barber jerked his thumb toward the trunk saying, “Already
packed.” Giving the old man a disgusted look I said with a bit of
chagrin, “You old bastard, you probably threw out my teddy

146
bear.” The old barber roared out in laughter as I pegged the
accelerator to the floor and watched the needle pass one hundred
and five miles-per-hour.
We drove up Highway 35 where it turned into Highway 77 as
the old barber searched each signpost. He smiled with relief at the
sign that indicated the turn to Lake Whitney. The old barber,
referring to a map on his lap said, “Turn left, down that dirt road,
and follow it about twelve miles. We‟re looking for an airstrip.”
Glancing out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was
expecting me to say something so I kept my mouth shut. Hell, no
matter what I said or asked it wasn‟t going to change anything.
With the dust curling behind us, we drove over a small rise and
looking down in the valley we could see a sleek, dual prop, multi-
passenger airplane sitting on the grass runway with its propellers
still turning. The old barber indicated for me to head down toward
the runway and the car bounced over the grass as we approached
the pilot leaning against the fuselage lighting his pipe.
Switching off the ignition, I glanced over at the old barber
asking, “This one‟s for me isn‟t it?” indicating the airplane. “Yep,
sure is son,” he said with a smile as he handed me a packet that
appeared to be filled with smaller envelopes. “Sam here,” he said
indicating the pilot, “is going to fly you to Dallas where you are
going to catch a plane to wherever that ticket in there tells you to.
The flight numbers and times are on the ticket and the reservations
are confirmed.” “First class?” I asked with a hopeful smile as the
old barber snorted, “You have to be shitting me boy, as many
years as I have been doing this, I ain‟t ever got beyond that
curtain. And you ain‟t going to do it before me.”

147
 We walked to the back of the car and as the old barber opened
the trunk, I looked at him and asked, “You have family?” “Son,”
he said in a quiet tone, “in this business there isn‟t any room for
family. The agency is all the family I had.” “Don‟t you miss
family though?” I asked. Shrugging his shoulders he said, “What‟s
to miss? Do you know what family is like?” Thinking for a
moment I said quietly, “Guess not,” adding in a musing tone, “not
really.” Reaching into the trunk the old barber pulled out my
duffle bag and tossed it to me. Hefting it in my arms I said, “Are
you sure you got everything? It feels a little light.” “Uniforms
only,” he said. “What about my civilian clothes?” I asked. The old
barber laughed as he indicated the shortness of my pant legs that
were showing my white socks. “If you haven‟t noticed, you are
growing and I would venture that none of those clothes fit you
anyway. So I saved you the trouble of carrying excess weight.”
“Come on children, I haven‟t got all day,” the pilot yelled over
the engine noise adding, “You can have this family reunion at
another time.” The old barber and I looked in each other‟s eyes as
we both realized that in some strange sense we were as close to
family as either of us had felt in a long time. Reaching over we
hugged each other tightly making promises of a reunion that both
of us knew would never happen. As I ran under the wing of the
airplane I looked back over my shoulder at the old barber as he
was climbing into his shiny lime green Roadrunner and yelled,
“You ever going to tell me your name?” His answer was a broad
grin with a wave of his hand. I knew at that moment I would never
see that old barber again as he floored the accelerator of the car
with his taillights giving way to a spray of gravel and a cloud of

148
dust. I felt a deep empty loneliness as I climbed the ladder into the
airplane and found a seat.
As I buckled myself in the spacious seat the pilot introduced
himself saying, “I‟m Sam, you need anything just give me a yell.”
I acknowledged with a wave of my hand as I opened the packet
the old barber gave me. Inside I found various envelopes with date
to be opened stamps on them. Taking the first one with today‟s
date I tore it open to find a ticket from Continental Airlines with a
destination to Anchorage, Alaska via San Francisco. Opening the
next envelope and reading the orders, I found that my security
clearance had been upgraded to Krypto Top Secret. Leafing
through the left over envelopes and not seeing anymore with
today‟s date I added the envelope with the multicolored wax seal
to the remaining envelopes and closed it with its string tie. Sitting
back in the seat, I tried to enjoy the ride as I thought of what lay
ahead.
I must have dozed for I felt the wheels bounce on the runway
as Sam was saying, “We‟re here. I‟m going to taxi right up to your
flight. You‟re on Continental flight 617, right?” Quickly grabbing
my ticket and searching the numbers I said, “Yeah, flight 617 with
a 3:10 departure.” Sam looked as his watch as he turned to me and
said, “You‟re just going to make it, they‟re boarding now,”
indicating the line at the bottom of the ramp that led up to the door
of the jet. Climbing out of the small airplane that was dwarfed by
the jet, I grabbed my duffel bag and bid Sam a grateful goodbye
for a safe ride with a wave of my hand. Going to the back of the
line I clutched my ticket in one hand and my duffle bag in the
other as I looked at all the other passengers. None of which

149
appeared to be military. I had to smile as I boarded the jet. I had
indeed beaten the old barber to the first class section of the
aircraft, as I walked through admiring the wide leather seats and
fat comfortable passengers. My smile quickly disappeared though,
as I was led past the curtain and found that most of the seats were
taken in the economy class. The class that held the seat indicated
by my ticket looked like it might be the start of a long nightmare
cramped in a very narrow seat. As I found my seat next to a very
large woman with multiple chins and her screaming child, I
quickly understood why everyone was fighting for abortion. This
little bastard would have been an excellent candidate. Squeezing
into my seat, I buckled the belt and prayed for a quick end to the
flight.
I tried to sleep but every time I dozed, I awoke to find that little
shit of a kid staring at me. Irritated, I lit a cigarette and entertained
myself by blowing smoke in his face and watching him first turn
green and then different shades of blue as he got sick. The
highlight of the flight was when the little bastard threw up on his
mother and she was just too damn fat to get out of the seat.
Because of the officious odor of the puke, the cute little redheaded
flight attendant allowed me to leave my seat and sit at the rear of
the jet with her. The jump seat was a bit small and rather
uncomfortable, but the scenery was much more inviting.
I sat and listened to the idle chatter between the stewardesses
and thought of where the sealed orders I had would be sending me.
Knowing that I wasn‟t supposed to open the envelope I picked at
the wax seal in hopes that it would come off. Bastards must have
known I would try, for the seal did not budge a bit. As we were

150
landing, I thought with a bit of excitement that maybe the orders
would send me to Vietnam. Reasoning it through and knowing
that my place in the order of life or history would have me dying
in Vietnam, I knew that I couldn‟t go for I knew I had to see snow
one more time before I died. With the average temperature in
Vietnam being sometimes in excess of 100˚, I knew if I got on a
flight towards Southeast Asia, the possibility of snow was just
about nil.
“Ladies and gentleman,” said the pilot in a deep official
sounding voice, “welcome to San Francisco Airport with
connecting flights all over the world. If you look out your
windows you will see a most rare sight in our fair city, snow.” I
jerked up at the word snow and grabbed the edge of the small
window and peering out, I saw a slight dusting of snow covering
the tarmac. Looking down at the wax seal on the envelope
clutched tightly in my hand, I whispered quietly to my self,
“Vietnam… could I be so lucky?”
Exiting the jet, we moved down the ramp holding onto the rails
of the slippery steps and felt the cold against the metal. Looking
up, I opened my mouth to let the snow flakes drop in, feeling them
tickle my tongue with their fluffiness as we all walked toward the
warm building. As I entered the airport gate, I looked back and
could see that the snow had stopped. “Was this an omen?” I
thought to myself.
Trying to fight my way through the hustle and bustle of the
airport, I made my way to the Continental Airlines counter to
catch my connecting flight to Anchorage. The woman at the
counter took my ticket and looking at me said, “I‟m sorry this

151
flight has been cancelled. World Airways will be handling this
flight.” “Groovy,” I said with a pained look asking, “and where is
their gate at?” Without looking up she pointed to my right and
said, “Next gate over, hurry, they‟re boarding now.” Grabbing my
bag, I ran to the gate just as the most beautiful blonde I had ever
seen in my life smiled up at me and asked for my ticket.
Stammering in awe at her unabashed beauty, “Um ah… here it is,”
I said as I handed her my ticket. Smiling at me, she moved to one
side allowing me to pass, her breast brushing my arm. Quickly
moving the duffle bag I was carrying to cover my fast growing
erection, I stumbled down the ramp that led to the aircraft.
It was as if I were walking in a dream state as I found my seat,
with thoughts of the blonde stewardess invading every inch of my
mind. I could not recall any time that I had been so awe struck by
a woman. Not even in the centerfolds of Playboy. It seemed as
though it were mere moments until the expansive jet was lifting
off the ground. “Ladies and gentleman, welcome to World
Airways. Next stop Anchorage, Alaska,” said the stewardess over
the loudspeaker. “Please make yourself comfortable and the
captain will notify you when he turns off the no smoking sign.”
The nineteen hundred plus miles seemed to go slow as I fought
to get a glimpse of the blonde stewardess I had met at the gate.
Elated, I caught her looking back at me with a smile. Drinking a
coke and smoking a cigarette, I spent the rest of the flight
convincing myself that such a beautiful woman would want
nothing to do with me. I did such a good job, that I wasn‟t
disappointed when we landed in Anchorage and I didn‟t see her as
I departed the plane. Finding a quiet place in the turmoil of the

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airport terminal, I opened the envelope that held the orders for the
next leg of my journey. Smiling I saw that it was again World
Airways Flight 653 to Osaka, Japan with a continuing flight on the
same aircraft with an unknown final destination. “Hell, at least I
am getting into the Southeast Asia theatre,” I said to myself.
Quickly boarding the aircraft, I found a comfortable seat,
grabbed pillows from the overhead compartments, and was fast
asleep with the last words I heard were the stewardess saying,
“Ladies and gentleman welcome to World Airways with stops in
Japan, the Philippines and points beyond.” It seemed like just a
few moments as the stewardess was shaking me awake with, “Are
you hungry?” Looking up at her, I replied with a sleepy look,
“famished.” As she set the tray with the smell of roast beef,
potatoes, and hot apple pie wafting up in the steam I looked down
and noticed the orders with the colored sealing wax sitting there
waiting to be opened.
Taking the envelope in my now shaking hands, I tore open the
flap breaking the wax seal. I looked around to insure no one was
watching as I opened the orders. I let out a silent whoop as I read,
377th Security Police Squadron, attached to MACV Headquarters
7th Air Force, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Republic of South Vietnam.
Reading the orders with further intensity, I discovered that I would
be indeed stationed in Saigon, Vietnam and assigned to the 377th
Security Police Squadron. However, for all intense and purposes I
would be assigned to the Commanding General, 7th Air Force, at
MACV headquarters, Saigon. I fell into a quiet yet elated mood
with thoughts of war and Vietnam running through my mind.

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 As the jet was lifting off from our very brief stop in Japan, I
noticed that a rowdy bunch of young soldiers had replaced the
civilians. As the World Airways Boeing 747 lifted off from the
runway, the flight attendant said into the intercom, “Gentleman we
have a few woman on board so be nice and welcome to World
Airways on our final leg to Saigon, Vietnam.” There was a loud
roar of cheers as the soldiers thundered their joy at their chance to
participate in long awaited combat.
The stewardesses came around the aircraft with carts filled with
food, soft drinks, and beer. “It‟s all on the house,” the stewardess
said with a smile. “You boys are going to fight for us, the least we
can do is feed you and give you one more party.” There were
whoops and hollers as even the geeks joined in on the party. I
thought the fifteen-hour flight would drag by until I looked up and
saw the smiling face of the blonde stewardess from San Francisco.
With a shocked look on my face I walked up to her, oblivious
to anyone else in the plane, I held out my hand to her and I
stammered, “My name is Sgt. Young, mind if I fall in love with
you?” She laughed with a twinkle in her eyes as she said quaintly,
“I do believe you already did that back in San Francisco.”
Blushing to what I was sure was a deep crimson I said, “Yeah, I
think I did.”
For the rest of the flight we were inseparable at the back of the
plane in the stewardess compartment. Susan White, as I soon
found out her name, begged her fellow stewardesses to free her
from her responsibilities with promises of taking over future
flights and switching vacation schedules. In the end, we had a
marvellous twelve hours together learning what a normal couple

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would learn in a lifetime. However, for Susan and me, this was our
lifetime. We made love in the cramped quarters under the blankets
as the other soldiers fell asleep from their exhaustive partying.
With the lights dimmed in the cabin, I felt the warmth and passion
of her sex. We each made promises to love each other. Looking
deeply into each other eyes as we promised to be faithful and that
we would be together as often as her flight schedule to Saigon
permitted. We fell asleep in each other‟s arms with my dreaming
of a rather outstanding welcome to World Airways.
We woke with the Captain speaking over the loudspeaker,
“Gentleman, we are going to come in high and drop down fast.
Fasten your seat belts and hold on.” Ten minutes later, there was
the bump of the landing gear on the airstrip and the loud roar of
the reverse thrust of the jet engines bringing us to a stop. The
curiosity of Vietnam got the better of me as I tore my gaze away
from the sad look in Susan‟s eyes and looked out the small
window. To one side of the flightline I could see the dense jungle
beyond the concertina wire. Farther down the flightline, I could
see bunkers made of sand bags with .50 Caliber machine guns
mounted on the roof. “God damn,” I whispered to myself, “what a
fucking exciting place to die.”
Glancing back to Susan, she could read the excitement in my
eyes as she pushed me toward the door of the aircraft saying, “Go
out there and play soldier. But if you get killed, I swear to God I
am going to hate you.” We held onto each other tightly as I wiped
the lone tear from her eye with a promise I knew was a lie, “Come
on baby, I‟m to God damn mean too die. God has bigger and
better plans for me.” Looking at me, she said as she handed me a

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piece of paper, “This has my phone number and address in Japan.
You call me, you hear. I‟ll be back the same time next week and I
want to see you.”
I let go of her hand as I stepped onto the stairway that lead to
the tarmac of the flightline. Breathing in the raw humid air, I felt
as if I were coming home from a long trip. Looking up at the hot
sun and feeling the equally hot breeze against my now sweating
skin, I thought with a huge smile to myself, “God damn, what a
wonderful fucking place to die…”

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 Chapter 16
You are free to do what you have to do…

S
quinting in the early morning sun, I could feel the
adrenaline coursing through my veins as I stepped
from the World Airways jet to stand at the top step of
the ramp that led to the dusty earth of Tan Son Nhut Air Base,
Republic of South Vietnam.
Feeling the heat and humidity invade the fabric of my uniform
as it attach itself to my skin, I took a good look at the airbase. It
was more modern than what I had pictured in my mind‟s eye. I
expected to see blown up buildings, craters from exploding bombs
in the flightline, or maybe even someone hobbling around with a
leg or other limb blown off. Instead, there were modern buildings
and well maintained roads not much different from what one
would see at a stateside airbase. There were minor differences
though. Breathing deeply one could sense the air was rich with
oxygen from the jungle vegetation. The growing and decaying
foliage each gave off a separate and distinct odor. The unmoving

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air held the odor of gun powder and hot oil. From the distance you
could just barely detect a distinct odor, which I later found out was
the smell of napalm.
It appeared to be a relaxed yet tense edged atmosphere amongst
the soldiers. I found it curious that in a war zone I didn‟t see
everyone carrying a weapon. Could it be that the peace talks that
were going on in Paris between that guy Kissinger and the North
Vietnamese were going to fuck up my chance to participate in the
war before I had my chance? I felt a stir of anger at the thought of
the possibility. However, at least I was in country and I had a
chance to engage in the war experience.
We were all herded into the Tan Son Nhut Airport terminal
where we were divided into groups as designated by the orders we
held. I had been standing there for about twenty minutes when it
dawned on me, there would not be another soldier that would
come close to having orders like mine. Interrupting the young
Lieutenant that was issuing the designations, he gave me a scowl
as he said, “Can‟t you see I‟m busy sergeant?” “Yes sir, sure can
but I don‟t believe your list there covers my orders,” I said. “Look
flyboy, get your ass back over there in formation. If you don‟t
have a designation, I will ship your ass up to Da Nang or Nha
Trang. Now get the hell out of my face sergeant.” “Lieutenant,” I
said with a slight edge to my voice, “I don‟t believe the
Commanding General of MACV Headquarters, 7th Air Force,
would appreciate your holding me up while he is waiting for me.”
“Look asshole,” the Lieutenant continued with sarcasm, “It says
right here, 377th Security Police Squadron. You‟re nothing but a
grunt cop.” I smiled as I held up the envelope with the broken

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multicolored wax seal showing. “Lieutenant, with the orders that
came in this envelope, which you do not have the clearance to see,
I figure I can fuck your life up royally and if you don‟t get your
shit together, I believe this man‟s Air Force will see your ass in Da
Nang before I get my morning coffee.” Giving me a look over the
top of his glasses, he looked intently at the broken seal and he said
with a hint of nervousness in his voice, “Get the fuck out of here.
Tell the bus driver out there where you need to go.”
Grabbing my duffle bag, I clambered aboard the old military
bus grabbing a seat adjacent to the driver so I could have an
unobstructed view out the front window. “Where you going
Sarge?” asked the bus driver. “MACV Headquarters,” I said
adding, “Wherever the Commanding General‟s office is.” Giving
me a sideways glance he questioned, “Playing with the big boys,
are we?” Ignoring him, I noticed that all the side windows of the
bus were covered with a heavy chicken wire like mesh. Putting my
finger in a small hole in the window next to my head I asked the
driver, “How come these windows are covered up like this? Feels
like I‟m in a prison bus.” “That mesh is to keep the grenades from
flying in and blowing your ass up,” he said adding, “That little
hole you got your finger in is from a bullet that came through that
window and killed a doctor from Walter Reed Hospital on his first
day here. Strangest thing,” he said with a perplexed look, “It was
only one shot and they got that motherfucker smack dab in the
right ear. That doctor never knew what hit him.” “Doctor… Walter
Reed…” I thought. “How did you know he was from Walter
Reed?” I asked. The bus driver laughed as he said, “That doctor
kept bitching and whining to anyone who would listen about him

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getting fucked up on a bogus drug test. He swore that someone
was out to fuck with him about some shit that went down in
Walter Reed. But,” the driver said with a grin, “That bullet sure
shut him the hell up.” I was quiet during the remainder of my ride.
Looking out the window, I thought of how the agency had a reach
much further than I had thought. Shame Capt. Hancock was such
a pussy and couldn‟t keep his mouth shut.
“Here you go Sarge, this is it,” said the bus driver as we pulled
in front of a low slung building that looked clean with its white
paint glistening in the midday sun. Standing in front of the
building and still trying to comprehend that I was in a war zone, I
admired the fresh mown lawn and the tall palm trees baking in the
hot air. Walking up the steps and entering the building, I was
greeted by the refreshing blast of cool air from the air
conditioners.
“Sgt. Young reporting to the Commanding General 7th Air
Force,” I said to the young clerk sitting at the desk. Looking up at
me he said, “The General is in Bangkok, I‟ll call one of his
adjutants.” While I waited for the clerk to return I wandered
around the front office looking at an assortment of photographs
along with the obligatory picture of President Nixon. I centered on
one that showed an aerial view of Saigon and Tan Son Nhut Air
Force Base. Squinting and trying to make out the details, I jumped
as I heard, “You looking for the General, Sergeant?” Turning and
snapping a salute, I saw a gray haired Lt. Colonel with deep
craggy wrinkles framing his kind yet lonely appearing eyes. “Yes
sir, I have orders assigning me to the 377th Security Police
Squadron, attached to MACV Headquarters, 7th Air Force, for

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assignment in whatever capacity deemed necessary and at the
discretion of the Commanding General.” The Lt. Colonel said with
a knowing smile as he held out his hand, “Sgt. Young, it is a
pleasure to meet you. We have tried for a number of months to get
you here.” “Me sir?” I questioned. Motioning me into his office he
explained, “Well not you necessarily, but an agent that can work
outside of the system. This war is coming to an end soon and there
will be things that might need to be handled in, shall we say a
most delicate nature.” “That‟s what I‟m here for sir,” I said.
“You‟re going to be housed in the barracks with the rest of the
soldiers of the 377th Security Police Squadron until you find
suitable quarters in downtown Saigon,” the Lt. Colonel said
adding, “It is imperative that you do not socialize with the other
soldiers and that you find appropriate quarters and get off the base
as soon as possible. Until that time you will have no assignment
other than to get yourself situated and then you will report to me.”
I left the building and wandered down to the street wondering
how I would get to the barracks. Looking up and down the street, I
saw the strangest vehicle I had ever seen in my life approaching
me. It appeared to be a vintage motorcycle and attached to the
front was a basket made of wicker that was fashioned into a
comfortable looking chair with a bright red silk cushion with
gaily-colored ribbons woven into the sides of the wicker to form a
decorative pattern. On either side of the chair, mounted on the arm
rests, was a piece of yellow silk with three red lines running
through it that I imagined were the flags of Vietnam.
I heard, “G.I. need ride?” in a singsong voice that came from a
very thin and aged Vietnamese man. I looked in wonderment at

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the motorcycle with three wheels. Looking at the driver and the
size of the machine I thought it was a good thing the contraption
had three wheels for I was sure the tiny man would never be able
to hold it up otherwise. “I number one cyclo driver Vietnam. Me
take you anywhere, little money,” the old man stated in his broken
English and decaying smile. “Is this thing safe?” I asked as I
examined the contraption with what I was sure was a dubious
look. Laughing he replied, “We no have accident. I number one
safe driver.” Giving me what he thought might have been a serious
look but appeared comical to me he said, “You ride cyclo with
peddles maybe you die. Motor make this number one fast.” I
continued to stare at the cyclo when a soldier walked past saying,
“Hey sarge, it‟s the only game in town. It‟s either him, one of the
cabs, or a hop-tack.” Looking at the back of the soldier‟s head as
he kept walking, I‟m sure I had a bewildered look on my face,
wondering what the hell he was talking about when he said hop-
tack. Shrugging my shoulders, I climbed into the basket and asked
the old man, “What‟s your name?” Looking at me with a large
grin he pointed at himself saying, “Me Du~ng Ho`ang, number
one cyclo driver all of Saigon.” Twisting around and holding out
my hand I said with a chuckle, “Very nice to meet you Du~ng
Ho`ang. Me number one cherry boy in Vietnam,” trying to mimic
his broken English as I admitted I was as new as it gets for G.I.‟s
in Vietnam.
The old Vietnamese cyclo driver revved the engine and scooted
quickly away as he asked where we were going. “Security Police
barracks,” I yelled back as the wind blew hotly in my face hoping
through my big smile that I wouldn‟t catch a bug between my

162
teeth. As we travelled the roads of Tan Son Nhut Air Base, the
difference between this base and a stateside base did become more
obvious. All the buildings had large sandbags stacked around their
perimeter about six feet high to protect the exterior walls. Dotted
through the base there were large mounds of dirt, many of which
had .50 caliber machine guns mounted at the top. I yelled back to
the cyclo driver, “Why do they have all these walls sandbagged
and what‟s with the mounds of dirt?” “Ho Chi Minh come with
many mortars and try to kill G.I. every night. You listen, you hear
whistle of mortar, you put head between legs and kiss ass
goodbye,” he said laughing and then getting serious added, “You
know Ho Chi Minh coming. You run you hide. Many mortars kill
many G.I.” Pointing to one of the mounds of dirt he added, “When
Ho Chi Minh come you go to bunker and you stay there until
quiet. If Du~ng with you, it okay that you bring him inside with
you. You just tell G.I. at door I you‟re number one cyclo driver.”
“No problem Du~ng,” I promised, “You will be my personal cyclo
driver and I will take care of you.” Confident that I had made my
first friend and a true ally I sat back in the seat and enjoyed the
ride.
We drove out the back gate and through the outskirts of Saigon
to take, as Du~ng said in his broken English now with a
smattering of French, “Short cut that save beau coup time.” I was
in awe at the intrinsic beauty of the city. Everywhere I looked
there were these wonderful little people on bicycles. Trying to
edge the bicycles off the road, yet failing due to their limited
numbers, were many cars none of which appeared newer than a
1950 something model. Children scampered around playing in the

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streets as the dogs sniffed at the garbage in the curbs as they both
kept a wary eye out for the bicyclists. There were vendors
everywhere that seemed to be selling everything from clothes to
food. Smelling the delicate aroma in the air, I realized that I was
famished. Motioning Du~ng to pull to the curb next to one of the
vendors I saw a woman barbequing small balls of meat on thin
wooden spears. With my mouth watering, I handed her a dollar
and she gave me a handful of the speared meat. Sitting back in the
cyclo with my legs crossed I invited Du~ng to join me as the old
woman ran up with a bottle of genuine United States Pepsi Cola.
Holding my fingers up to indicate another drink for my new friend
we ate the meat and watched the pedestrian traffic amble by.
Eating my fill, I asked Du~ng what we had eaten and that I wanted
the recipe for it was a most exquisite meal. He replied with a coy
grin as he said, “Monkey balls.” I did a double take as I looked at
him asking, “Monkey balls?” The old woman and my cyclo driver
tittered in laughter as they spoke to each other in their native
tongue. They pointed at me with those wide toothless smiles as the
old woman came up to me with a dead hairless monkey and
pointed to his testicles saying, “You like G.I.? Monkey balls
number one.” I shook my head laughing, as I had to agree with
her, “Yes monkey balls beau coup good, number one.”
We continued through the outskirts of the city for a short
distance. As we passed a signpost, I read the signs with directional
arrows. One pointed toward a town called Bien Hoa with 30 miles
written underneath. Another sign said Da Nang, another Plieku,
and it continued on and on for about thirty cities, all of which had
the distance to each town or village underneath it. A bit of reality

164
hit when I read the top most sign that said San Francisco and in
parenthesis, The World, with the indicator showing we were 7,826
miles from home.
I was feeling a little depressed and homesick as we approached
the main gate to Tan Son Nhut. Stopped at the gate by the Security
Policeman and a tough looking Vietnamese soldier wearing a
helmet with the letters QC on it, I was asked for my identification.
Showing my Military ID I was quickly granted access as was
Du~ng, as I vouched for him as my driver. As we walked through
the gates I couldn‟t help but notice the young Vietnamese women,
many of which were extremely attractive, hanging from the fence
yelling, “G.I., you take my to PX me love you long time.” Or the
young women that yelled, “G.I., you buy me cigarette me love you
all night. G.I., you want to marry Ngoˆn take her to America? Me
love you long time, do good boom-boom.” I was rather surprised
at the young age of many of the woman. Some appeared to be just
young girls barely into their teens. Knowing that my sex life just
might come to fruition, I climbed back into the cyclo as Du~ng
continued on to the barracks.
The barracks was a three-story structure that looked formidable
with its heavy planked walls and great many sandbags piled
around the perimeter. With the sun setting and the air starting to
develop a chill, I bid Du~ng a good night as I gave him a twenty
dollar bill. With tears of gratitude in his eyes, he promised to be
there for me in the morning. “What the fuck you doing Sarge?
You can‟t give these gooks greenbacks.” “What the hell are
greenbacks,” I asked. “Oh fuck,” the soldier said as he walked
away, “Another god damned cherry come to fuck up, in country.”

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 Not knowing what the hell the soldier was talking about, I
walked into the Orderly room and reported to the clerk. “I‟m
assigned to the 377th and I need a room.” Looking in a ledger the
clerk said, “Sgt. Scruggs just went back to the world. You can
have his bunk. The linen and crap is over in the closet,” he said as
he pointed down the hall. As I walked down the hall he added,
“First floor about halfway down.”
Grabbing a couple sheets, a pillow with a yellow stained case,
and an old wool moth eaten blanket I looked for my room,
swearing that I would have a place off this base before the end of
the week. Throwing my duffle bag on the floor and the linens on
the bed, I leaned against the wall in exhaustion. Listening to the
sounds of laughter in the barracks, I heard a long whistle and then
an explosion in the distance. The sound of an air raid siren wailed
through my ears as I heard another long whistle, this time much
louder and again the sound of an explosion, only this time much
closer. With my heart pounding a rapid tattoo, I dove under the
bunk and crawled tightly against the wall hoping that the sandbags
would protect me. There were several more long whistles from the
mortars, or whatever the hell they were, that seemed to be
screaming right over me. Several times, I could feel the explosions
through the ground. With recollections of the snow that I saw in
San Francisco, I figured I was going to die on my first day in
„Nam. Remembering the women at the front gate, I was pissed that
I wasn‟t even going to get laid, so I promised God that if he let me
live I wouldn‟t fuck any one of them that were under eighteen. It
was as if there was a miracle as the bombing stopped and the air
raid siren turned off. Feeling relief, I said small prayers to God for

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letting me live and reaffirmed my promise not to fuck anything
under sixteen. Hearing a loud rumble in the distance, I quickly
amended my last prayer back to my original promise to keep the
girls over eighteen.
I had a fitful sleep that night with dreams of war, blood, and
carnage. I saw the children of Saigon running through the streets
naked with the rain of napalm chasing them. I woke in the
morning refreshed yet covered in sweat. Quickly showering and
scraping off my miniscule whiskers I went out side to find the
toothless smile of Du~ng waiting for me.
“You ready to help me find a house and take me on a
sightseeing tour?” I asked. “I am number one tour guide and we
find you number one house with mamma-san and houseboy.” We
spent the next two days scouring the streets of Saigon finding the
perfect apartment in a secured complex occupied mostly by news
correspondents from the United States. With Du~ng negotiating
the cost, I moved in a rather spacious set of rooms fully furnished
for $15.00 a month. Bringing in an old woman, Du~ng said with
an eager smile, “This number one mamma-san. She clean house,
she cook food, she do laundry. And, she fucky-fuck if you want.”
Looking at the ancient woman I said, “She can be Mamma-san but
no fucky-fuck. How much?” I asked wondering at the cost. The
old woman and Du~ng exchanged quick words and turned to me
saying, “If you give Mamma-san $8.00 a month she be rich and
work for you only.” Whistling to myself I said, “You tell Mamma-
san I give her $20.00 and she work for me but no fucky-fuck.”
“You,” I said to Du~ng, “I‟ll give you $50.00 every month and
you drive for me only. I will rent the apartment below me for you

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and your family and you can move in and be here when I need
you.” Tears of gratitude showed in the old man‟s eyes as the old
mamma-san beamed, as Du~ng said, “You make Du~ng rich
man.”
After spending the next twenty-four hours getting myself
situated in my new apartment and having the necessary security
measures installed to provide for my absolute security, I attended
to the details of stocking the small antiquated refrigerator with my
immediate staples of Pepsi, Oreo‟s, milk, and bread. I walked out
onto the balcony that lent itself to an expansive view of downtown
Saigon over the concertinaed wired walls of the compound.
Looking over the balcony, I saw an old tired looking war
correspondent walking through the courtyard who looked like he
had one too many days in the bush. With his typewriter tucked
under his arm and his unkempt beard and hair attracting the flies
he said, “Cheerio, I say there young lad. You have balls of brass
having a flat up that high. Aren‟t you afraid the snipers might pick
you off?” in his strong English accent as he looked up at me with
his hands shielding his eyes from the harsh sun. Turning and
glancing at the open windows, I thought for a second and then
yelled back to him, “No, not really. I‟ll have my man take care of
it for me,” wondering at the same time if I had made a wise
decision to move into the apartment with a view, even with the
steel plates added to the interior walls and the bullet proof glass
added to the windows. With a wave of his hand he left yelling over
his shoulder, “Good luck to you young lad. If you live through the
week maybe we can share a pint at the pub.” Glancing back over
the rail I could see Du~ng on the balcony below and yelled,

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“Du~ng, go over to that hotel across the street and pop off a
couple shots at the windows and walls to make sure they are sniper
proof.” Looking up at me with his ever present smile he said, “No
problem, YoungˆToi.” I smiled as I realized I had just learned my
Vietnamese surname.
I left my apartment on Vo di Nguy Street and grabbed a cab to
MACV Headquarters. Paying the cab driver, I walked up the steps
into MACV Headquarters where there was the same clerk as the
day I had arrived, sitting at the desk. Recognizing me, he nodded
and hit the intercom button and spoke into it saying, “Lt. Colonel
Parker, Mr. Young is here to see you.” Hearing over the intercom,
“Send him in,” from the Lt. Colonel, I looked questioningly at the
clerk who nodded his head at the closed door across the room. I
knocked once on the door, opened it, and saw Lt. Colonel Parker
sitting at his desk with a number of Vietnamese officers.
Dismissing them, he invited me to sit down shaking his head as he
said, “These god damned AWOL‟s are becoming a royal pain in
my ass. I get letters from congressman and senators insisting that
these AWOL soldiers be listed as missing in action or prisoners of
war.” With a look of disgust on his face he added, “Those sons of
bitches AWOL‟s steal more from this base than the local
Vietnamese do and those Vietnamese officers that were in here
just spent an hour giving me hell because they feel that those
damnable AWOL‟s are also subversives.” “Are they?” I asked.
“Oh, most definitely,” he said continuing, “We lose more
weaponry, vehicles, and rations to our own troops‟ theft than we
ever have from the Vietcong. Giving him a thoughtful and
questioning look I asked, “Are they organized or isn‟t there

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something we can do to stop them?” Giving me a sad look with
those wrinkled eyes he said, “They‟re kids, not much older than
eighteen or nineteen. They decided that they didn‟t want to
participate in the war so they just up and left. Granted, they should
have probably gone off to Canada like the rest of those draft card
burning pussies, but for some reason, be it to please Mommy or
Daddy, they decided they had to come to the „Nam. Now, they are
almost as big a threat to the security of Tan Son Nhut as the
Vietcong. To answer your question, yes, a few groups of about
fifteen soldiers each make their rounds every four to five weeks
and go on raids. It is almost impossible to catch them because they
are American soldiers and many of them disappeared with their
uniforms and ID cards. So they pretty much can come and go at
will. We had a few caught by some pretty sharp Security Police,
but for the most part they have free range.” Giving him a quiet and
pensive look I asked, “What do they do with the AWOL‟s when
they are caught?” Looking at me with a rather tense stare, he
replied, “In the old days they used to be afraid that they would go
before a firing squad for desertion. But today, they know the most
that will happen to them is a court-martial with minimal jail time,
if any, and then a discharge. It‟s just what they want.”
Standing up and stretching, Lt. Colonel Parker walked to the
window, stared with a faraway look and said, “Did you know that
many of these AWOL‟s are carried on the books as still in
service?” “Why?” I asked. “It‟s so the family back home can keep
getting his pay check and we don‟t have congress beating on our
asses because we lost momma‟s little boy,” he said. “But what
happens when it‟s time for them to rotate and go back home?” I

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asked. “Then,” Lt. Colonel Parker said, “We list them as missing
in action so if they do show up or we catch them we can work
them back into the system without anyone being the wiser and it
makes the world think we are stronger. At least, that‟s the way our
congress and President Nixon want it to look. Those dumb fuck
politicians think these boys will never talk when they go back
home.” “It sounds like it would be rather difficult to keep track
of,” I said. Giving the Lt. Colonel a questioning look I asked,
“How many AWOL soldiers are we talking about?” The Lt.
Colonel turned and gave me a hard stare as he said, “Well over
twelve hundred soldiers from all four branches of the service. In
addition, that is not counting the civilian AWOL‟s or those from
the French Army that started all this shit back in 1953.” I whistled
out loud, shocked at the number. “And we can‟t catch them?” I
asked. Lt. Colonel Parker smiled as he said, “At one time we had
over 540,000 soldiers here, and I believe it would be rather
difficult to isolate them. Today we have just over 140,000 soldiers
and it is still just as difficult. But there will come a time, which I
believe may be soon, when we will have the opportunity to isolate
them.” I looked at the Lt. Colonel with a questioning look as he
added, “One day very soon this war will end and many of those
boys are going to look for a plane ticket back home. We are going
to have a lot of shit to clean in this house.”
“Anyway, enough of that,” the Lt. Colonel said with a finality.
“Did you get settled in your new digs yet?” Shaking my head
saying, “Yes sir, all settled and I cut my ties with the base.”
“Good,” he said and leaning back in his chair added, “I want you
to get very familiar with the city and the outskirts of the city.

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Wander into the small villages and see how these people live. I
want their lifestyle to become second nature to you.” “You mean
like a sightseeing tour?” I asked with a grin. “More like a long
range in depth reconnaissance of the civilian population of
Vietnam. I want you to learn the intrinsical nature of the country.
Learn how the people think and react. Learn their customs. Learn
their social strengths and weaknesses.” “I think I can handle that
with pleasure,” I said with a smile. The Lt. Colonel added with a
serious note, “It may not be as pleasurable as you think. You are in
a war zone and you will be a constant target. The Vietcong have
infiltrated every pore of this city and you will never know to
whom you are really talking. Find a local you can trust. I thought
of Du~ng Ho`ang and prayed that I had made the right decision in
putting my trust in him as I said, “Already handled Colonel. What
do I do about reporting to the Commander of the 377th Security
Police Squadron?” “I already spoke to the Commander and he
knows that you will appear in formation in uniform whenever you
deem it necessary to use your uniform or that authority to
accomplish whatever mission you‟re on. In other words, Sgt.
Young, you are free to do what you have to do and in the vein of
authority, you will only report to the Commanding General or
myself. If you get in a bind you do the best you can to extricate
yourself and you send word to me only as a last resort.” “Should
there be any specific time frame that I should report to you?” I
asked. Lt. Colonel Parker looked at me wistfully as he said, “At
least every ten days so I know you are still out there and alive.”
“No problem Colonel,” I said as I grasped the doorknob after
issuing a salute, which was smartly returned by Lt. Colonel Parker

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as he said with a smile, “I can see you can‟t grow a beard, but let
those little whiskers go and grow your hair long. You look like
some kind of damn lifer.” As I opened the door to the Colonel‟s
office, he added, “If you see any of those AWOL‟s on your
adventures…” I interrupted him saying, “You want me to arrest
them?” “No,” he said continuing, “Just take notes and remember
where they are.”

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 Chapter 17
What a magnificent country….

A
s I stepped from the MACV Headquarters and
the Commanding General‟s office, I stretched
and I stared at the morning sun wondering
where to begin this reconnaissance. Breathing deeply, filling my
lungs with the crisp clean hot air that I felt deep in my lungs, I
heard the now familiar sound of the cyclo. Looking down the
street, as I ambled down the walkway, I saw the grinning face of
Du~ng as he raced up the street in his gaily decorated cyclo.
“Good morning YoungˆToi, why you take taxi cab instead of me?”
he said with a hurtful tone in his voice. “I just wanted to give you
a chance to get settled with the family. I have a great deal of work
ahead of me and I am going to take you away from your family
equally as much.” As we stood there talking, I saw a small wooden
hut under a roof made of old tin with a sign that Du~ng said
indicated good French roast coffee. Walking into the small hut we
received our cup of muddy water and I gave Du~ng a curious

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glance after tasting what he called coffee as I said, “We must have
a serious talk. I trust you, but MACV and the QC‟s are going to do
a background check on you and your family. If I am wrong in my
judgement, I will have to kill you and then the United States
government will kill your family. If I find you have lied to me or
deceived me, or I learn you are Vietcong, I will do it with a smile
on my face. Are you willing to take that chance?” “YoungˆToi,”
the old man said with a tearful look in his eyes as he whispered in
his broken yet spirited English, “I have lost much family to
Vietcong. I am an old man and I have given the lives of many of
my children to war. I go back many years and I have seen much
death. I have, as my children have, been born with many followers
of Ho Chi Minh trying to take our village and the children of the
village. When I was young, I fought along side my father and
mother in the mountains of Dien Bien Phu and Vietcong overran
our little band of soldiers. As my father covered me with leaves
from the jungle and hid me in a cave, I heard much shooting and
screaming and when the night came, I could see by the light of the
moon that were all dead. I prayed to Buddha for much strength as I
buried my father, mother, and those from our tiny village. That
day I swore that Vietcong would never take from me again.
YoungˆToi, I give to you my life if you take over where old man
cannot anymore,” pointing to his chest with its ribs protruding
from lack of fat. “YoungˆToi, I will die for you.” I looked at the
old man that looked both broken down and yet at the same time
revitalized. He had found a new and growing energy. An energy
that allowed him to reclaim a sense of purpose. “Did I trust this
old man?” I thought. “Not only with my life, but those lives of my

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countryman?” I mused. “You bet your sweet fucking ass,” I said
to no one in particular.
Leaving the dank café with its coffee I knew would give me
runs before the end of the day, I jumped in the front basket of the
cyclo saying to Du~ng, “Show me your country. Show me your
villages. Show me what Vietnam really is.” With a whoop and a
holler, showing a wide toothless smile, Du~ng revved the
motorcycle engine and sped through the base and toward the city
of Saigon.
As we rode into the outskirts of downtown Saigon, the effects
of war was quite evident and I was immediately impressed that in
the middle of all the chaos, life went on with a smile. Everywhere
I looked, there were smiles. The singsong voice of the Vietnamese
language was like music in my ears. By the tone, you could hear
the smile and laughter in the voices. It seemed so contradictory to
what I had seen on the evening news back home, and in closer
observance, I understood that no news correspondent could ever
reflect the true feeling and life within these wonderful people. It
seemed on initial glance that everyone was in a rush, but a closer
look revealed that each person was moving slowly and with
purpose. It was as if each was relishing their moment and space
within the world. There was brightness in the eyes of these people.
One reflected the hope and dreams of people that were finally
being realized.
“Du~ng,” I said thoughtfully, “Pull to the side and go grab me
a Pepsi and some monkey balls. I want to sit and just watch the
people for a while.” “Sure thing YoungˆToi,” he said with his ever
present toothless grin as he pulled his cyclo to the side and then

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ran across the street to the little food stand. I laughed as I watched
my friend and confidant run in his old man shuffling gait. I took in
the smells of the ancient city as I looked at the marvellous
architecture with its French influence. If I turned my head one way
I could detect the smell of fish cooking over an open grill and
when I turned my head the other way I could enjoy the strong yet
delicate odor of meat with its myriad of spices filling my nostrils.
There were fruits that I have never seen before hanging from
hooks on one side of each stall in the market place. On the other
side of the small stalls were various types of meats. I looked at the
meat quizzically for a time trying to discern what type it was. I
knew the side of beef, and the pig with its ears and little tail
curling behind its broad rump was obvious, but as Du~ng walked
up to me I asked, “Is that what I think it is?” Du~ng‟s eyes
crinkled in laughter as he said, “Dog meat number one.” Pointing
to each piece of meat that hung on the hooks he said, “Cow, pig,
cat, dog, monkey and rat.” Feeling a gurgle in my stomach, I held
up my hand to tell him to stop. Joining me in the front basket of
his cyclo, Du~ng and I feasted on the monkey balls and Pepsi as
we watched the afternoon heat slowly send the population indoors
for the ritual afternoon nap.
Du~ng bolted upright and grabbed my arm tightly with an
expression of raw panic as he said, “Zapper.” I gave Du~ng a
curious glance and looked to where he was pointing. Walking
down the street was what looked like a child barely in his early
teens carrying what looked like a black book bag on his way home
from school. With his starched white shirt, pants of some sort of
black gauze material that looked like pajamas, and bare feet, he

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looked so innocent. I looked at Du~ng saying, “Are you sure?” I
could feel the trembling and fear of the old man as he begged me,
“YoungˆToi, you shoot quick. Zapper number ten. He kill many
G.I.” Grabbing the Smith & Wesson .45 caliber handgun from my
shoulder holster I ran across the street toward the young boy. As
the young Vietnamese boy approached the swinging doors of a bar
with loud music emanating from it, I yelled at the top of my voice,
“Stop. Halt. Freeze.” He looked at me with a shocked look as he
reached into the satchel as if looking for something and then he
threw it through the front door. “Freeze motherfucker or I‟ll blow
your fucking head off,” I said as I pulled the trigger. The .45
bucked in my hand as Du~ng jumped on top of me, effectively
knocking me to the ground as the loud explosion and deep fast
heat brought with it pieces of the building, body parts, and blood.
I had no idea how long I had laid there dazed but when I pulled
myself from beneath Du~ng I could see that the streets were
quickly filling with the sounds of wailing and crying. I could hear
the wail of sirens in the distance and I was unable to determine
how close it was because my ears were still ringing from the
concussion of the explosion. Trying to get to my feet, I could see
that Du~ng was slowly opening his eyes. After checking to make
sure that his frail body was not broken, I looked at what was once
a bar. The front was gone and the ensuing fire had engulfed a taxi
that was at the curb. It seemed that wherever I looked there was
someone walking around covered in blood.
I stumbled as fast as I could to the bar to see if there was
anything I could do. As I approached the now destroyed building
that looked so much like many more in the city, I saw the young

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boy that I had shot. He lay there dead with a hole in his upper
chest and his face obliterated by the explosion. Hearing anguished
cries coming from the building, I looked inside to see small fires
illuminating massive amounts of blood and tissue covering the
walls. Lying at my feet was an arm, still in U.S. Army uniform,
with its stripes showing proudly in the glare. Feeling sickened and
seeing the Military Police and rescue crews pushing their way in, I
quickly retreated so they could do their jobs. I looked across the
street and I could see Du~ng standing there with tears in his eyes.
As I started to walk back over to him I again looked down at the
young Vietnamese zapper and said, “Little fucking asshole,” as I
kicked him in the head effectively causing it to break open. Trying
to wipe the gore and brain matter from my shoes, I climbed back
into the cyclo saying to Du~ng, “Let‟s go home.”
As we rode back to the apartment, I quietly reflected on the
turn of events of the morning. I wondered how these people lived
so happily with war around them every day. Death was constantly
at their door and they never really knew what form it would come
in. By my changing attitude, which I imagine was from my recent
encounter, this remarkable and beautiful city had taken on a rather
ominous aura along with its intrinsic beauty. Du~ng leisurely
motored down the streets and through the downtown shopping
district to give me a chance to explore the streets and people.
Time appeared to slow as I looked at every face and tried to
look into every set of eyes. Where just a few blocks away was
death and carnage, this part of town was unaffected by that
incident. But through the many masks of the people, one could
sense the underlying fear and yet the commitment to living life. I

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thought of how very much I could learn from these beautiful
people, as I knew that every face had witnessed war. The open
trust that I held when I awoke this morning was no longer within
me. I found that as I examined each set of eyes, instead of looking
for and admiring the innocence, the charm, or the intelligence, I
found that now I was looking for the hatred and the anger. Was
this survival instinct kicking into my psyche? Or had I picked up
the hatred and racism I had learned as a child and was now
projecting on these innocent people?
I motioned for Du~ng to pull to the side of the street adjacent
to an alley. As he pulled to the side and stepped to the front of the
cyclo to offer his hand to help me step out, I noticed his eyes
darting from side to side and it looked like he was about to go into
full hyperventilation. Lifting my nose into the air, I could detect a
rather distinct and pungent odor, “What the hell is that?” I asked,
as I drank the odor in. Glancing around the street side vendors, I
could see that we were not receiving the happy and gay looks from
these shopkeepers as we had from those in the main parts of the
city. We were receiving cautious sideways glances as if each set of
these wary eyes tried to keep a distance from us and their
surroundings. “YoungˆToi,” Du~ng asked in a cautious tone, “You
sure you want to stop here?” “What the hell is that smell?” I asked
curiously, as I looked down the alley trying to figure out where the
strong odor came from. “Opium,” Du~ng said. “Opium?” I asked.
Du~ng motioned for me to follow him as we entered the alley.
Giving him a curious look and noticing the dark shadows, I pulled
my .45 from its shoulder holster and insured that I had a round
chambered in the breach before placing it back in its holster with

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the safety off. About thirty feet down the alleyway there was a
door painted bright red with a small gold dragon on it. Standing at
the door was barely a wisp of a man giving us cautious and
curious looks. Du~ng spoke to the man at the door in his singsong
voice indicating me with a smile. “YoungˆToi, we go in you stay
close to Du~ng and be very quiet. No say nothing to nobody.”
Curious of a new adventure, I assured Du~ng that I would be
prudent of his concerns. As we stepped through the door into a
large room that emitted a small red and yellow glow from the
lamps and candles that were placed high in the room, I waited for
my eyes to adjust to the dim light. An old woman came up to us
and handed each of us a long clay pipe filled with a dark tar like
substance. Looking over the room, I could see men and woman of
all ages but mostly the very old looking like they had passed out
on the floor with the long pipes stuck to their lips. Thinking that
maybe they were dead, I listened closely and heard the small
moans and whimpers of the drug induced sleep. “Why are these
people like this?” I asked Du~ng. “They come here to smoke and
to forget,” he said as he jerked his thumb indicating the world
outside. “Opium is number one drug make you forget life and
bring much happiness.” I looked around the room, which was now
brighter as my eyes had adjusted to the light, and I saw that the
mix of the Vietnamese people included several American soldiers
in their unkempt uniforms and fresh young faces with drooping
eyelids. “But,” he added with an irksome smile as he laid down his
unused pipe, “It is important that we do not forget our country and
what happens out there. Many of these people have given too
much of their lives and cannot fight anymore.” Kicking one of the

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American soldiers in the side to wake him up, I asked rhetorically,
“And what about these guys? Are they too old to fight or did they
see too much?”
I told Du~ng to let the old woman know that the Military
Police would be there in an hour and to either have the soldiers out
in the alley or the Military Police would be coming in to gather
them up. After a brief monkey sounding chatter between them,
Du~ng said quietly, “She say let G.I. stay here. Not safe for them
to be in alley like that. Maybe VC come kill them,” as he moved
his finger across his neck in a slicing motion. I thanked the old
woman of the opium den as Du~ng and I stepped into the fresh air.
“It seems like such a waste of life to spend it in the opium den,” I
said to Du~ng. “You have much to learn about our people
YoungˆToi, you have much to learn.”
After calling the Military Police and giving them the address of
the opium den, I looked down at my watch and realized that the
afternoon had barely begun. Knowing that going back to the
apartment would be depressing, I tried to bring some levity back
into the day. Noticing the attempted change in atmosphere Du~ng
stopped at a roadside stand and picked up a ball of string and some
rusted old hooks. Giving him an inquiring look, he just returned it
with a knowing smile.
We sped through the city, narrowly avoiding crashing at every
turn until we got to the outskirts and entered a completely new
world. I could smell the moistness in the air from what seemed
like a large body of water as my ears caught the sound of rushing
water on the other side of a dense canopy of vegetation. I looked
over my shoulder and it appeared as though my new friend had

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reverted to his childhood as he wheeled the cyclo expertly down a
jungle path, carefully avoiding the deep ruts left by heavier
vehicles that had travelled the road before us.
As we emerged from the jungle, there before us, lay a very
beautiful, fast rushing, and expansive river. “Sai Gon River, many
fish and much fun,” said Du~ng with a face that looked like that of
a ten year old child with sparkling eyes as he untwined the string
from the ball and attached the old hooks. As I stood there,
marvelling at the river with its hundreds of thatched roofed
sampans coursing up and down the river plying their wares and
trades, Du~ng, giving me a geography lesson, pointed down the
river as he said, “South China Sea eighty kilometres.” For the
next several hours, we sat at the bank of the river and threw our
lines into the water forgetting the morning and each of us, within
our minds, looking to the future….

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 Chapter 18
Brother, can you spare a fish…

I
really was hoping that I wouldn‟t catch any of the fish that
might be swimming in this river. Looking closer into the
water, I could see strange little things floating on the surface.
Du~ng had a number of fish, unlike any I had seen before, impaled
on a long sharp stick that he added to proudly.
“You boys want to share any of them there fish?” came the
heavy southern accent from behind us. Turning and looking I saw
a young American who looked not much older than myself. His
well-worn green fatigues had the pant legs cut off at the knees and
the shirt was missing its sleeves, which revealed a young gangly
body with open pustules of disease and suppurating wounds. The
jungle illness, that was so prevalent among the locals that lived in
squalor, looked odd on such a young pale face with its red hair and
hundreds of freckles. “Have a seat,” I said. Du~ng looked at him
warily and turned to me and gave me the same look. Looking
intently at Du~ng I gently patted the .45 that was still hidden in the

184
shoulder holster beneath my shirt as I asked, “What are you doing
out here? You look like military.” Looking at me with suspicion
and indicating my civilian attire he questioned, “Are you in the
military or are you civilian?” “Civilian, work for a heavy
equipment contractor. I got a little heart murmur and they
wouldn‟t let me in the military,” I said answering his question,
continuing, “Figured that I wouldn‟t have to come to the „Nam but
my fucking company sent me over here anyway.” “Hell boy,
you‟re lucky. You don‟t have to do any fighting,” said the
southern accent. “Being in the bush really sucks. I used to be a
radioman and I was always the first one those motherfucker gooks
tried to kill. My sergeant told me that I was the third radioman he
had in a month.” “Doesn‟t sound like the odds were in your
favor,” I said evenly trying to hide my disgust and asked, “So what
do you do now?” “I got me a crib down the river just off of Bach
Dang Street. It‟s good enough so you don‟t have to stay awake
every night and just bad enough so the MP‟s don‟t come down and
stick their noses into our world.” “Our world?” I asked. The young
soldier gave me a cautious look as he asked, “Come on man, you
going to give me one of them fish or what?” I nodded to Du~ng as
he pulled one of the smaller fish from the stick and handed it to the
young AWOL. Taking the fish and gently wrapping it in a large
banana leaf he said, “Thanks man, this means a lot to me,” as he
slowly ambled away. Yelling after him I asked, “What‟s your
name soldier?” Looking back at me, he said quietly, “Jackson…
Melvin Jackson.”
I watched Melvin amble away holding the fish with care as
though he were holding a new born child. I looked at Du~ng and

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asked, “What the fuck was that?” Du~ng stood there for a moment
looking over the horizon as though searching for something in the
distance. Touching the Buddha at his neck and rubbing it between
his fingers he began, “This is not your war. This is a war of many
generations of my people. Americans come in and tell us to look
for a better way of life. Of that, I do not know, but Americans
come in and speak of this thing called democracy. We are a simple
people that want only to go back to simple life.” Looking at
Du~ng, I could see the transformation from his new found boyish
looks and charm that the river had brought him back to, to the
aged old man of a long time warring country. The old man
continued, “There are a great many Americans that do not
understand our war and have left your armies to live among our
people.” “But how do they survive in this country?” I asked in
wonderment. “They survive because they have to. These young
Americans learn new strengths along with their new weaknesses.”
Not really understanding I figured I would gain more insight with
more experience.
My sad old friend gathered up his fish as we trudged back to
the cyclo. As we rode back to the compound to my apartment, the
image of Melvin Jackson kept running through my mind. I tried to
imagine what life would be like living on the streets of Saigon.
Our cyclo approached a major intersection and we slowed to a
stop to let a bunch of laughing children cross in front of us.
Looking at me they pointed and giggled as though seeing an
American in that part of the city was a novelty.
Looking around I saw a sign that said “Bach Dang Street.”
“Du~ng, is this the same street that the young soldier said he lived

186
on?” “Yes,” said Du~ng. “Turn to the right here. I want to see
where this Melvin guy lives,” I said as I pondered what the living
conditions were like that would inspire such jungle rot on the
young soldier‟s body. As we travelled down the street, the modern
living conditions and the manufacturing impressed me. I found the
white marble and granite buildings with the French architecture
impressive. It was as though the affluence of this part of the city
had a unique way of warding off the war that was so prevalent in
other parts of the city. Looking to the tops of the buildings I
quickly understood why. At many of the corners of the buildings
were mounted .50 caliber machine guns and bands of uniformed
Vietnamese soldiers. On each street corner there were Saigon City
Police with their little .38 caliber handguns strapped to their sides
trying to look tough but failing miserably until you saw the
Vietnamese soldiers that were backing them up with their M-16‟s,
AK-47‟s, and the one or two of the young soldiers that were
holding RPG7V grenade launchers casually over their shoulders.
Soon the visibility of the local police and soldiers disappeared
and we rode into the depths of misery and despair. The sunlight
that was once bright in the blue sky just blocks before was
dimmed by the haze of the cooking fires on the sides of the street
as the poor huddled around the fires with small pieces of meat on
pointed sticks. As Du~ng accelerated slowly down the street,
littered with garbage and human waste, we could see the cautious
looks that we were given. One old woman turned quickly,
clutching the skinny dog she was skinning, as though she was
afraid we would take her food from her. At the sound of our cyclo,
curious eyes appeared from the windows overlooking the street, as

187
it appeared the only mode of transportation in this part of town
was a bicycle. There was the constant call from the young women
that leaned out of the windows half-naked or those leaning against
the buildings with miniskirts shorter than any I had ever seen in
the Untied States and without the benefit of panties, crying out,
“G.I., I do number one fucky-fucky for one dollar, I love you long
time.” I smiled inwardly at the offers and realized that some of
these women, like the others I had encountered earlier at the front
gate of Tan Son Nhut Airbase, were also spectacularly beautiful.
Had I been alone, I probably would have taken up many of the
offers. Or at least I would have tried to fulfill as many as I could.
As we stopped, one of the young women ran up to me and offered
herself to me. I looked at her with curiosity and realized that in her
beauty there were western features in her face. Observing my
curiosity she spoke in her light singsong voice, “My Papa-san is
American G.I.” “Where is your Papa-san?” I asked. She replied as
though it was common nature, “Papa-san go back to America long
time ago, but he come back for me one day soon.” “When did he
go back?” I asked. “He go back when I was baby,” she said
proudly.
Looking back at Du~ng, I said, “That asshole is not coming
back.” “YoungˆToi,” Du~ng said trying to educate me, “They
never come back. American G.I. come here, make baby, and then
go home. G.I. never thinks about how baby live when they are
mixed race. These children cannot live with the rest of the city.
Many are killed by our own people so they come here to escape
and live.” Looking at the young girl, I shook my head and for a

188
moment ached for her. Looking at her deeper, I could see that she
was happy. Maybe… ignorance is bliss.
Jumping off the cyclo, I tossed a pocket full of quarters to the
children and watched them scurry after them, while I watched
Du~ng approach a street vendor where he began bargaining for a
bunch of bananas. As I laughed and watched Du~ng fight a
capuchin monkey for a ripe bunch, I saw a group of men that were
taller than the average Vietnamese shopping in the little market. I
watched with curiosity as I counted four men go about their
business talking to the shopkeeper in fluent Vietnamese, even
imitating the singsong accent of the language. I was curious about
what they were doing, but I sat back in the cyclo and just watched.
It was strange to see shoulder length hair and full beards on the
men. In their rough and unkempt appearance, like that of the
hobos I had seen many times in the rail yards back home, there
was also that persona of a hard and determined person. I watched
them intently, and at the same time trying to be invisible and
nonchalant. I noticed on the bicep of one of the men, bearing the
bulldog tattoo with Semper Fi printed underneath, which was
common of the Marine Corps.
Du~ng came back with the hard fought for bananas and tossed
them to me as he said, “Eat.” Peeling and tasting the sweetness of
the banana, I watched as the four men left the little market with
old burlap bags filled with their goods. Looking at me, they gave
me a small nod of the head to acknowledge me and continued
down the street without a word. Knowing that these men were
probably some of the AWOL‟s Lt. Colonel Parker was talking
about earlier, I motioned for Du~ng to follow them at a distance.

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We followed for about two blocks when we came to a four story
old decrepit building and watched them disappear into its depths.
As we drove slowly past the building I looked up and could see
many men with western features, which I assumed to be
American, with their Vietnamese wives and children sitting on the
porches trying to catch the cooling breeze. I watched more
children playing in the narrow streets. Laughing and playing in the
garbage, which would rival any ghetto, were children of all races.
The children were black, white, Vietnamese, and a combination of
all. The language was a mixture of American, French and
Vietnamese, usually with each sentence containing a word from
each language. I was in awe at the sight, for I was just getting
used to the way the world had changed for me since I had gotten to
Vietnam. Now there was another whole world opening up before
me.
Looking thoughtfully at the building, which looked like the
projects of Chicago or New York, I tried to understand a self-
imposed world that these men, many with their racially mixed
families, had put themselves into. Looking at Du~ng I asked, “Is
this for real?” As we sat back, scanned the balconies, and watched
this way of life in the ratty structures, Du~ng said reflectively,
“There are many buildings like this in Saigon. You American
G.I.‟s take beautiful buildings and make it like this,” as he opened
his hands in a wide expansive motion while shaking his head in
disgust.
Feeling a bit embarrassed and unable to give any excuse to
Du~ng for my countrymen, I walked back toward the cyclo and
saw numerous military jeeps gutted and rusting in the sunlight,

190
thinking that there was something much more criminal here than a
bunch of AWOL‟s or deserters. For the next several hours Du~ng
and I slowly drove through the streets and alleyways of downtown
Saigon with the image of the AWOL‟s and deserters in the back of
my mind.
In the bright sunlight amidst the gaiety and laughter, I felt that
we were travelling in safe harbour. I felt comfort with the .45
caliber handgun under my shirt as we turned into the dark and
dank rat infested alleyways, which were nestled in worlds I could
never have imagined. It seemed so strange that at one corner I saw
children playing and laughing in the streets. There with total
abandon, as their parents looked on, and at the same time just
barely ten feet away around a corner shielded in darkness, there
was the leftovers of a young man that was slowly being consumed
by the rats and other vermin of the alley. Walking up to the man, I
kicked at the rats trying to chase them away. Looking down I saw
the meal for the rats was a young Vietnamese boy barely in his
mid-teens. Stooping down and taking a closer look, I noticed that
his one missing leg was cauterized from surgery. “Soldier?” I
asked Du~ng. “Yes, he maybe soldier at one time. But look like he
was wounded, so he no good for fight anymore. So Vietnam Army
no need him anymore and he no good for work.” I bent down to
pick the young soldier up, shaking my head in disgust. I reflected
on the stories of how our veterans are treated as I said to Du~ng,
“Our people wouldn‟t stand for our soldiers being treated like this
or be allowed to die like this.” Looking at me as I hefted what was
left of the soldier in my arms Du~ng asked, “YoungˆToi, what are

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you going to do with him?” I laid the young boy back amidst the
rats as I said quietly with tears in my eyes, “I don‟t know.”
Aware of my despondent mood, Du~ng looked at me with a
twinkle in his eyes as he said, “Come, Du~ng give you peace and
happiness.” I climbed back into the cyclo as Du~ng, with his
knowing smile, sped out of the city and into the countryside with
the sun starting its slow decent on the horizon. As the sky filled
with bright reds, oranges, crimsons, and multiple blues I was in
awe as we approached what to me appeared to be the Garden of
Eden. The grounds of the temple were lush with vegetation.
Flowers and plants that overwhelmed the imagination and senses
were abundant. Walking the grounds in awe, I looked at the
temple with its curved architecture and ornate figures of dragons
and gremlins that were carved into the roof and sides of the
building. As I gazed at the intrinsic beauty, I was overwhelmed at
the mind and imagination that could build such a structure. Tears
of emotion filled my heart as I walked within the beauty.
Du~ng wrapped his arms around my shoulders as he guided me
to the front entrance and indicated that I should remove my shoes.
As I bent to remove my shoes, I looked up into the temple. I was
greatly moved by the large gold Buddha that was sitting in the
center of the large room. Tears of emotion flowed freely down my
cheeks as I gazed at the enormity of the deity sitting there as
though to welcome me. As I gazed up fifty or more feet at the
seemingly closed yet knowing eyes, I knelt respectfully and let my
eyes wander about the room. The beauty was unequalled by
anything I had experienced before. I could feel the energy of the
room. The total peace and tranquillity that emanated from every

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corner of the room filled my heart and soul. I looked at Du~ ng,
who was knelt in prayer, and saw that he, was filled with the same
emotions as I. We spent many long minutes with the Buddha and
as we emerged from the temple, we saw that the sun had set. I
gave Du~ng a questioning look as I noticed the nervous expression
on his face. I heard a slight rustle of silk behind me and turning
quickly, I saw the bare wisp of what looked like an octogenarian
standing there in his bright yellow robe. He and Du~ng exchanged
a few quick words and then after bowing to the old man Du~ng
said quietly to me, “He say much danger if we leave tonight. He
say many Vietcong in jungle at night. He say we stay here and be
safe.” “Is that really necessary?” I asked. “Many Vietcong at
night. Vietcong like to fight in dark,” he said with warning
caution.
We awoke the next morning to the birds singing, a sun filled
sky, and the hint of dew on the petals of the many flowers.
Walking from the temple I looked back and drank in more of that
wonderful peace as I watched the tenders of the temple working in
the gardens. I raised my hand in question to Du~ng as I looked at
the gardeners in their brightly colored flowing robes and saw one
of the temple workers giving me a cautious glance with his round
eyes and blonde hair. Taking my arm and leading me away Du~ng
said gently, “He is not one of you anymore, he is of the temple
now…..”

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 Chapter 19
Sex, Drugs, and Rock-n-Roll….

T
he night spent at the temple had a calming effect on
my feelings and for the next several weeks Du~ng
and I put many miles on his cyclo travelling the
countryside in search of an understanding of the culture and
people. I had yet to understand why I was instructed to continue,
as it seemed by the headlines in the Stars and Stripes, the only
newspaper we really had access to, that the end of the war was in
sight. It was rather enjoyable learning of this new culture though.
Susan, my rather erotic flight attendant, and I were able to
enjoy a rendezvous a couple times but the prying and accusatory
eyes as we walked down the street were hard on her and our time
together became less frequent. She felt like she was being
compared to many of the American female soldiers that were
doing the fucky-fuck for combat pay per half-hour. I smiled as I
thought of the fortune those round eyes and big tits were making
those women.

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 We stood in the middle of wide expansive fields of wet grass
up to our waist admiring the multiple level rice paddies in the
distance with the water buffalo wandering along the edges waiting
for their owners to call them for their next days work. There was
an unnatural quiet broken only by the sound of a low hum as the
bright orange sun dipped low in the sky, as Du~ng and I swatted
mosquitoes that I would swear were the size of B-52 bombers.
“What the fuck is up with all these god damn mosquitoes?” I
yelled as I scratched open another wound in my arm trying to
extract the poison that the little flying bastard had injected. “Must
be water close by,” said Du~ng as he also tried to kill those little
flying bastards. Looking over the horizon to see where the body of
water was, I saw what looked like an original Soviet tank made by
the workers of the Red Sormovo of the 1920‟s with its Russian
lettering that I was unable to read. We walked over to the tank and
the hum became louder as Du~ng banged his fist at the rusted steel
hull of the tiny tank. “This is left over from when the French were
here in the early 1950‟s,” said Du~ng with a somber look.
Crawling on top of the tank to look into the turret, which had long
been rusted shut, I saw the origins of the mosquitoes and the ever-
increasing hum.
A large swampy bog hidden by the tall grass was just yards
away. As Du~ng walked to the edge of the pit I jumped off the
tank to join him, my legs sunk into the muck up to my knees.
“Holy shit Du~ng, this crap is quick sand,” I screamed as I thought
back to the old movies I had seen as a child where the star of the
movie is swallowed up. Du~ng with a grim look said, “Move
slowly,” as he reached a long stick over to help pull me loose.

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“Not quick sand… tar pit,” he emphasized as I looked down and
saw the black caked muck covering me. The noxious odor of
sulphur was mind numbing. Using a rusted cable, that thankfully
was still attached to the tank, Du~ng, with great effort, strained his
withering muscles to help free me. Scrapping as much of the
gooey substance off of me as I could, we continued our
exploration of what we soon discovered was a huge pit that was
for the most part covered by a very thin layer of dirt that allowed
the grasses that were so common in the area to grow upon and
keep the pit effectively hidden. As we traversed the edge with long
sticks prodding the earth in front of us, we determined that the pit
was about fifty square meters. As we traversed the edges, we
found numerous old weapons with French, German, Russian and
Chinese markings. There were a few long rifles stuck into the
ground barrel first as if they were grown from the seeds of
ammunition that was also scattered about. Du~ng, with a knowing
look in his eyes said softly, “Now I know what French did with all
those guns.” “What do you mean?” I asked. Du~ng replied with a
more confidant air, “When French leave Vietnam in 1956 my
father tell me that French no want Americans to have their
weapons. They leave Vietnam very quickly like scared rabbit and
they no have time to take guns. Nobody ever knew what happened
to guns.” Looking across at the expanse of the pit and then
throwing one of the old rusted guns into the muck, I watched the
gun sink quickly from sight. “Damn, no telling what‟s in there,” I
said in wonderment.
We gave up on our explorations for the day and made our way
back to Saigon for a hot bath. I bid Du~ng farewell as his children

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came clambering down to help their father put his cyclo away and
hear of the adventures he had with YoungˆToi. As my old friend
took his children on his knee and started his adventure story, I
slowly climbed the steps to my apartment feeling the exhaustion of
the day.
As I approached the door of my apartment, there stood a young
officer with 2nd Lieutenant Bars saying quietly, “Lt. Colonel
Parker sent me over to give you a message. You are Mr. Young
aren‟t you?” Assuring him that I was, I invited him into the
apartment where I quickly made my way to the bathroom where I
stripped off my tar destroyed clothing. “Lt. Colonel Parker said he
wants to meet with you first thing in the morning,” he yelled over
the now running shower. As I stepped into the hot water and tried
to work suds into the tar, I yelled back, “Any idea what he wants?”
“Seems like congress is looking at the drugs moving into the
United States from here,” he yelled back over the sound of the
now soothing hot water. I thought for a few moments as I finished
my shower of the large quantity of drugs that was readily available
on the streets of Saigon. What would cost mere pennies here
would be a windfall of cash on any city street back home. I
stepped from the bathroom, toweling my hair, and saw the young
Lieutenant with his back to me, fingering my shoulder holster that
was hanging on the back of an old wooden chair. Clearing my
throat, he jumped and quickly turned apologizing for touching my
weapon, “I‟m sorry sir. I just never saw a quick draw rig like that
before.” Waving the incident away like a bunch of the ever present
flies I continued, “Who do you work for?” With his chest swelling
up with pride he said, I‟m the Executive Officer of the Office of

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Special Investigations, Saigon Division.” “Do you know who I
am?” I asked. “No sir,” was the quick reply. “Damn,” I thought to
myself, “They got me under very deep cover.” Addressing the
young Lieutenant I said, “Tell Lt. Colonel Parker I‟ll be there at
first light.” I smiled inwardly as the young Lieutenant snapped to
attention and issued me a salute. If only he had known, I was but a
mere sergeant.
It was a rainy, hot, sticky morning as I stepped onto the
balcony of my apartment. Looking down I could see Du~ng in the
courtyard working on the engine of his cyclo with his oldest son
by his side handing him tools. “Hey Du~ng,” I yelled over the
edge of the balcony, “I‟m going into Tan Son Nhut for a couple
hours.” Looking down in despair at his cyclo Du~ng yelled back
up, “Me hurry and fix.” Smiling down at him and then looking up
into the sky I yelled back pointing to the sky, “Don‟t rush, this
crap looks like it‟s going to keep going all day. I‟ve got some
meetings at the base and I have no idea when I‟ll get done.”
Du~ng waved back with a grateful smile.
I grabbed my poncho and ran through the rain trying to hail one
of the old rickety cabs. Dropping inside on the seat, with the
springs poking in my ass, I instructed the driver to take me to Tan
Son Nhut Airbase. Passing through the main gate with my taxi
driver, under the watchful eye of the QC‟s, I directed him to
MACV Headquarters. With the rain still falling I ran to the front
door and almost collided with Lt. Colonel Parker. “Have breakfast
yet?” he asked with a smile. “Nope, not yet,” I said. “You forget
your still in the Air Force?” Lt. Colonel Parker asked. Quickly
snapping a salute with a “No sir” attached I looked up into his ever

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smiling eyes as he said with a laugh, “Just checking. That long
hair doesn‟t look like military anymore.” Squinting closely at my
face he roared with laugher as he said, “Son of a bitch, you‟re
growing a whisker.”
Feeling embarrassed, I followed the Lt. Colonel as he quickly
ducked the rain running to the canvas covered jeep. As Lt. Colonel
Parker started the engine, he said solemnly, “Congress is up in the
General‟s ass about the heroin that is making it back stateside.”
Looking at him reflectively, I said quietly, “Who is putting more
of that shit on the streets? The soldiers here or the god damned
CIA bringing it in by the plane load?” “You heard about it also?”
asked the Lt. Colonel with a grim look. “Oh Christ Colonel, the
word is out all over the damn place. It is being said that the
Agency is importing the heroin into the black communities back
home to get rid of the ghettos. I figure it is kind of like what Hitler
did to the Jews, only we‟re doing it in a different way. What is it
they call it? Self annihilation?” Looking at the Lt. Colonel with a
long sideways glance, I said flippantly, “Those dumb fucks don‟t
realize that they are causing more ghettos and urban blight. I have
a feeling in the next ten to fifteen years we are going to learn what
Black Power really is.”
We rode in silence for about a half hour as Lt. Colonel Parker
seemed to be lost in thought and I watched the soldiers trying to
evade the rain drops with quick sideway maneuvers as they
shielded their weapons. “We have to make the effort or at least
make congress think we are doing something,” Lt. Colonel Parker
finally said. “Sir, I am here at your leisure and will do whatever I
can. You just have to give me the direction and let me know how

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much leeway I have,” I said in response. As we stepped from the
jeep and walked to the foyer of one of the classiest French
restaurants I had seen since my arrival, the Lt. Colonel said firmly,
“Make it look good. Get me some press and make it look like we
are doing something to stop the flow of heroin. I want these
fuckers to hear about it all over the United States.”
We sat and ate Belgium waffle‟s covered in syrup and fresh
strawberries in quiet thought. Leaning over to Lt. Colonel Parker I
asked, “You aware of the can of worms you‟re about to open by
giving me free rein don‟t you?” Looking at me seriously, as he
said with a hint of annoyance, “You do what the fuck you have to
do to get me some god-damn headlines and get that god-damned
congress off the General‟s back.” We finished breakfast and as we
were about to part ways I told the Lt. Colonel, “Call your office
and have them set me up with some blank field orders. I‟ll send
my man down to pick them up later this afternoon.” Looking at the
Lt. Colonel‟s eyes I tried to gage his thoughts as I said, “It may be
a while until you see or hear from me. But trust me, you will know
what I am doing by reading the headlines in the Stars and Stripes.”
I hailed a cab back to my apartment and was lost in thought as I
watched the sun peek from behind the clouds and felt the steam
rise from the fast evaporating water pooled on the streets.
Covering my nose from the stench that also rose with the steam, I
ran from the cab into the courtyard just as Du~ng was wiping his
hands on an old rag, looking proudly at his work on the cyclo.
Taking him aside, I told him of my need for him to retrieve some
papers for me at MACV. “No problem, me go very fast,” he said
as he jumped on his cyclo and motored out of sight.

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 I spent the rest of the afternoon developing a plan to reach the
media and toss them a bone that would turn into a damned big
dog. Sitting in the dark smoking a cigarette and enjoying a tall
brandy, I knew that I would have to go back into uniform for my
idea to work. With the sounds of the city beckoning me, I went
down to find one of the girls of the street to distract me.
Waking up early in the morning, I looked at the young woman
stretched naked across my bed. I sat there for a moment admiring
her perfect form and flawless skin as the sounds of a waking city
drifted through the open window. Slapping her lightly on her ass, I
said gently trying to mimic the Pidgin English that was so
common in the area, “Come baby-san, wake up. G.I. must go
work.” Stretching and allowing me a full frontal view of her
nakedness she said, “G.I. no go work. You come fuck-fuck
Keiˆ„u.” Looking down and admiring her nakedness I took a quick
glance over the railing to make sure that Du~ng was not standing
out there waiting for me, and I was convinced that I still had time.
Stripping off my shorts and with the squeals of delight from
Keiˆ„u at my growing member, we had an hour of raw hot passion
that left both of us sweating in the sheets. I lit a cigarette and
popped a can of Pepsi as I lay there beside her with my hand
tracing the river of sweat down her spine.
“YoungˆToi,” came the call from below. Grabbing a towel, I
said to the young woman, “Come on baby-san, G.I. got to go and
you go too.” “Come on G.I., me still horny. Me love you long
time. You go PX for me when you come back?” I threw her a five-
dollar bill as I said, “Come on baby, get your ass out of here.” I
watched her get dressed and rearrange her make-up with practiced

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ease as I took a quick cold shower. With a towel wrapped around
me and noting that the girl was gone, I leaned over the railing and
called down to Du~ng, “Come on up.” I saw a big grin crease his
face as he almost bumped into the young woman that had just left
my apartment.
“YoungˆToi, you be careful you no get VD from street girl,”
admonished Du~ng as he walked in the door and poured himself a
cup of coffee. I laughed as I said, “No problem, but we have to
talk.” For the next hour, I tried to explain my “obligations” for the
coming weeks. Du~ng, never the fool and probably one person
that now knew me better than I knew myself, said with a bit of
scorn, “You think Du~ng is stupid or you no trust Du~ng.”
Looking at him with sympathy, I said gently, “You know what I
do. However, it is much safer for you if you never know what I do
now. Understand?” Shaking his head with accepted dejection he
said softly, “You be careful YoungˆToi. You are my son.” Turning
to hide the tear that I knew was forming I asked quickly, “Did you
get that package for me from Lt. Colonel Parker at MACV
yesterday?” “Yes YoungˆToi,” he said patting his chest where I
could see the bulge secreted beneath his shirt.
I unpacked my uniform and my mamma-san ironed it for me
and shined my shoes. Looking in the mirror, I took a jar of
Vaseline and coated my now growing hair with a thin layer.
Combing it back and up over my ears I looked almost military
again. I dug out some thick plastic horn rimmed glasses left over
from my days in basic training and found that the prescription was
still adequate. Admiring my crisply starched uniform, I dug into
my box of tricks and pulled out a set of Captain Bars. Attaching

202
them to the collar of the uniform shirt, I added an assortment of
Air Force service and campaign ribbons on the chest to give me an
air of authority and knowledge. “Might just intimidate those
assholes,” I whispered to no one in particular. I donned the
uniform as mamma-san looked on and noticed that the uniform
slacks just didn‟t hang right and were much too short. She
removed my pants and quickly ran from my apartment to return
ten minutes later with another pair. I watched as she expertly ran
the iron over the material and handed me the freshly pressed
uniform. Looking at her curiously because of the perfect fit, she
smiled her toothless smile as she said, “My friend mamma-san for
other G.I. who is asshole. She say her G.I. number ten. He no pay
her all the time so she lose uniform for him.” She smiled more
broadly as I bowed with clasped hands and said, “Thank you
mamma-san.”
Standing in front of the mirror admiring my reincarnated
military look, now with the chosen rank of Captain, I turned at the
sound of Du~ng at the door holding a thick manila envelope.
“Thank you Du~ng,” I said as I took the envelope from him. I
opened it and saw a sheaf of blank military orders. Examining the
orders with Du~ng standing on his toes trying to look over my
shoulder, he quickly ran from the room. Telling Mamma-san to let
Du~ng know that I had to go find a typewriter, I turned and saw
Du~ng standing there with an old 1941 Royal Quiet De Luxe
Typewriter. “You can have,” he said proudly to me with his chest
puffed out. Taking the old typewriter, I realized that for a machine
damn near thirty years old, it had seen little if any use. Examining
the ribbon and checking the key action, I realized the machine was

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in mint condition right down to its red and black ribbon. Looking
up at Du~ng I thanked him for the gift wondering how he had
acquired it.
For the next several hours, I banged away at the typewriter
effectively transferring me into the Customs Unit of Tan Son Nhut
Airbase as Captain Trent Young, newly appointed Executive
Officer. I tried to explain to Du~ng that for the next few weeks he
could have the time off. “Where you go YoungˆToi?” he asked
with a tone of fear in his voice. Thinking that he was afraid of me
abandoning him I tried to explain that I had to shake things up at
the Base. “Du~ng,” I said softly trying to explain, “We Americans
are a strange bunch. We are a proud people and a patriotic people
that have a way of believing our way of life is the best way for
everyone. So much so that we sometimes try to force it down other
people‟s throat. And then some of us believe that life is nothing
more that sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll…..”

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 Chapter 20
This nigger ain’t your boy….

I
quietly sat back in the shadows and watched the soldiers
pass through the lines at Customs at Tan Son Nhut
Airport. Many of the young soldiers were finally on their
way home after a year of hard fought combat. By the stark look in
many of the eyes, it was obvious that yesterday was filled with
combat. The transition was so quick that most of the young men
had not even had time to get excited or accept the realization that
they were about to go home.
The line through Customs was long and each soldier patiently
waited their turn, pacing in short step with eyes darting as though
they were still in the bush looking for the enemy. “You nervous
son?” came the sarcastic question from the too old for his rank, fat,
and balding sergeant checking the young soldier‟s bag. “No
sergeant,” was the quick snappy reply. “Just want to get the fuck
out of here and back home,” the young soldier added. “I think
you‟re trying to hide something boy,” the old sergeant said with

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obvious racial criticism and a drawling emphasis on the word boy.
“No sergeant, I just want to go the fuck home,” the young soldier
fired back. “And sergeant,” the young soldier whispered loudly,
“This nigger ain‟t your boy… bitch. You call me boy one more
time, you used up cocksucker, and I‟ll take me a motherfucking
claymore mine and shove up your fat little white ass. Now you got
me, you motherfucking raciest asshole?” I smiled at the comments
of the young soldier who, at nineteen had lived more life than
most men had in a lifetime. “Do we have a problem here?” I asked
as I walked up with Captain Bars gleaming in the lights of the
bright and harshly lit room. The young soldier said after issuing a
smart salute, “Captain, this motherfucker is trying to roust me
because I‟m black.” The old sergeant sputtered denials as I winked
at the young soldier saying, “Why don‟t we take a claymore and
shove it up his fat white racist ass and blow him all the way to
duty on the perimeter.” The old sergeant sputtered and bristled,
“That fucking nigger is trying to smuggle drugs Captain.”
“Sergeant,” I exclaimed with as much of an air of authority as I
could muster, “You are a bigoted racist prick. We will not have
that in my command and you will not talk to our soldiers in that
manner. You got that sergeant?” The old sergeant looked worn,
beaten, and tired as he said, “Yes Captain.” “Now get the hell out
of my face sergeant,” I said hotly and at the same time, I wondered
what happened to my own overt attitude on racism. Looking at the
young soldier that was the center of abuse as the old sergeant left
his post, I said, “Now if I find anything in your bag that you‟re not
supposed to have, I‟ll see your ass in the bush for another twelve
months.” I searched the young soldier‟s bag and found nothing

206
more than a rather large supply of condoms. Looking up at me
with a sheepish look he said, “Have to make up for lost time when
I get back to the world, Captain.”
I spent the rest of the day in the Customs area and watched
over the processing of about four hundred soldiers. There was not
close to the degree of smuggling that I had imagined there would
be. The largest drug transfer, other than three ounces of cocaine in
a blue “Evening in Paris” bottle of talcum powder, was the twelve
bindles of heroin, which was secreted in a small liner sewn into a
duffle bag. It was barely enough for a week supply for a casual
user.
It was obvious that smuggling would be a very simple process.
All twelve lines for Customs checks were manned by soldiers that
were obviously too fat and much too unmotivated to be any good
in combat. Of the two that were not overly obese, were the ones
that were ungainly skinny with their pock marked faces and
glasses made from the bottom of coke bottles, barely able to see
ten feet in front of their faces. “Well, at least they didn‟t run to
Canada,” I thought grimly. Shaking my head in disgust as the last
soldier passed through the lines and the final flight back to the
world departed, I called all the inspectors into formation.
“You soldiers have got to be the worst pieces of crap I have
ever seen in this man‟s Air Force,” I said loudly. Holding up the
blue bottle of talcum powder and the twelve bindles of heroin, I
said, pointing to the two soldiers that were sitting against the wall
in shackles, “If these assholes weren‟t so god damned stupid, you
wouldn‟t have found a damn thing. You lazy sons-a-bitches are
just going through the motions and anyone with half a fucking

207
brain could figure out your game plan. You will not report here in
the morning. You will report to the Provost Marshal‟s office
where we will see if you will be motivated enough to stay alive
sitting in a perimeter tower.” I stormed from the room pointing to
a Security Policeman at the door indicating the two soldiers that
tried to smuggle drugs, “Those two assholes aren‟t going home.
Take them down and book them for smuggling, drug possession,
conspiracy, and for fucking up my day.”
I went down to the Provost Marshal‟s office and reported to
Maj. Kingsley. I explained the issues with my fat boys and their
lack of motivation. “Well hell Captain, I can always use them boys
up in the towers. I got me some good men up there now and I sure
hate to waste them up there just so the gooks can use them for
target practice,” he said with a grin. I smiled back at the Major as I
asked, “Mind if I go down to the towers and pick out the men that
will replace mine?” “No problem,” said the Major, “You take
whomever you want. There are some good boys out there and
they‟ll work hard for you just to get out of those towers.”
Promising the Major that my fat boys would replace his men one
for one, I thanked him for a list of his best and their tower
numbers. I left the office with some hope that shit just might get
better.
I drove down the long and dusty road of the perimeter, passing
tower after tower, bisected by sand bag covered bunkers with the
.50 caliber machine guns sitting at the ready. Squinting into the
sun as I looked up in the tower from my seat in the old CJ-5 jeep
with its olive drab camouflage paint, I yelled up, “Airman
Washington, got a second?” Looking over the edge of the tower,

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he yelled down, “Can I help you Captain?” “Yeah,” I yelled back,
“I have an offer for you. Can you come down here?” “No sir,”
came the reply as he added, “Got me a couple gooks with water
buffalo just beyond the perimeter and it just don‟t look right.”
Shielding my eyes and looking to where the Security Policeman
was pointing I could see two tired looking water buffalo pulling a
plow through the soil of the drained rice paddies with two young
Vietnamese men at the reins. It didn‟t look right to me either.
“Send down the ladder,” I yelled up. “Rope or wood?” was the
smiling question. Squinting up at him and knowing it was a test, I
yelled back, “Wood.” I‟ll be damned if I was going to look like a
fool knowing that my little muscles would hardly be able to pull
me up the sixty feet into the tower.
I was amazed at the expansive view from the tower. The fields
beyond the perimeter fence were devoid of vegetation for a couple
hundred yards lending an excellent view from the tower. Just
about fifty yards beyond the tower was a long stretched mountain
of concertina wire with tin cans attached like Christmas
decorations. Looking at them curiously I asked the young Airman,
“Why the cans?” “Why sir, those little gook fuckers can slide
through that wire quicker than shit out of a pig‟s ass. Only chance
we got after dark is pretty much to hear them tinkle them cans if
they don‟t hit a trip wire for a slap flare.” Looking through high-
powered binoculars across the field and pointing to the water
buffalo I said, “Did you see the AK-47‟s sticking out of that
burlap bag on the water buffalo‟s back?” “Sure did Captain. I‟m
just waiting to see if they work their way closer.” Looking at my
watch I said, “By that time it will probably be dark.” Thinking for

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a moment and pondering the reaction from the young soldier, I
said quietly, “I got an idea. You shoot the water buffalo, and if that
little gook out there makes a move, I‟ll waste him.” Looking at
me, with what I believed was a bit of astonished trust, he smiled as
he said, “Let‟s do it.”
Taking careful aim at the large animal, and after gauging the
wind and elevation using his wet thumb for Kentucky wind‟age,
the young soldier sent two quick shots to the huge animal. The
blood spurted from the front quarter of the animal as it dropped
dead in its tracks. Following the action through the sights of my
M-16, I saw the young Vietnamese grab for one of the rifles from
the burlap bag and look toward our tower. As he took aim at us, I
gently pulled the trigger of my weapon. In a fraction of a second, I
was rewarded by the explosion of red coming from his chest. The
young Airman, following my action, brought the other Vietnamese
boy to Buddha via a neat hole drilled in the front of his head with
the back portion covering the rice paddies with a spray of gore,
just as a round from the gook‟s AK-47 split the wood at my
shoulder.
“You tired of this tower yet?” I asked the young Airman as we
scanned the horizon for more of the illicit water buffaloes. He
replied, “Hell yes Captain. I would do damn near anything to get
the hell off this damn thing.” “No more combat,” I mentioned.
Looking at me a bit incredulously he said, “Captain, all me and my
buddies want to do is our part and make it back home in one
piece.” “Have any buddies out here now?” I asked. “Yes sir, five
of them,” he said as he pointed to other towers. “Any of them you
don‟t want to work with?” I asked. “No sir. All of them are pretty

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cool. We‟ve been taking care of each other a long time.” “Great,” I
said explaining, “I already spoke to Maj. Kingsley and you will
report to the Saigon Airport at 0800 hours. You‟re going to work
for me now.”
I spent the next couple of hours giving all the Airman on my
list a quick interview and was completely impressed with their
promised devotion in exchange for their release from combat.
Little did they realize they were about to enter a world with a
completely new and different kind of combat. I noted that all the
buddies of Airman Washington were on my list. I liked the idea
that we were a racially diverse group now and I figured we would
be more effective. I knew that we were not going to have any more
of that nigger or honky shit any longer.
I arrived at the Saigon Airport at 0700 hours and noticed that
all the Airman were there leaning against the wall by the front of
the terminal in a small group laughing and patting each other on
the back acknowledging their good fortune at the new duty
assignment. I was impressed with the sharpness of their rarely
worn khaki uniforms, the spit shined shoes, and being at work an
hour early. Walking up behind the young soldiers I heard one of
them remark, “I damn sure don‟t know what that Capt. Young
wants, but whatever he wants he‟s going to get it from me. Fuck
them nasty ass towers.” Smiling to myself, I remembered the
movie from 1967, “Dirty Dozen.” I wondered how dirty my dozen
would be willing to get.
“Okay boys, into formation at the head of the tables.” I said as
I pointed to the long tables, which would hold the luggage waiting
to be inspected. Trying to gauge the personality of each of the

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men, and how far they could be pushed, I threw them each an
envelope saying, “You are getting this rank now but you have to
earn it to keep it.” “Hell Captain, we‟ll do anything you need us to
do,” said Airman Washington. There were rumbles of agreement
from the ranks with smiles and back slapping congratulations for
each other as they each opened their envelopes. There were orders
and the stripes to accompany the promotions of all the young
soldiers to the rank of Staff Sergeant. I smiled inwardly, as I
wondered at their thoughts of learning, that in reality, they now
outranked me.
“Good morning YoungˆToi,” I heard from behind me. Turning
I saw Du~ng‟s toothless smile with my mamma-san on his arm. “I
bring mamma-san like you say,” he said as he sidled up to me
whispering, “I almost no recognize you YoungˆToi, you look like
you have short hair and you look like G.I.” I admonished Du~ng
to be careful about what he said about our relationship as I
introduced mamma-san to my dirty dozen. “Take off your shirts
and mamma-san will sew on the new stripes for you. Make sure
you tip her well. When we open up for business,” I said looking at
my watch and continuing, “In about an hour, you will wear that
rank as though you‟ve owned it for six months. You will not take
any shit from anyone nor will you give any out. You will be
courteous, respectful and firm. When this day is done,” I said
pointing at a large viewing podium behind the tables, “I want to
see ten pounds of weed and a kilo of cocaine or heroin sitting up
there. MACV knows the shit‟s coming through, and it‟s up to you
boys to find it.” “How are we going to learn how to find it
Captain?” asked the new SSgt. Washington who, apparently,

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proudly made himself the NCOIC of the group. Addressing the
group as a whole I said, “Everything that has been tried by the last
group of candy asses was just like running a damn Chinese fire
drill. Everything that has been written about procedure has, for the
most part, failed. You,” I said emphasizing my point by looking at
each of the men in the eye saying, “will rewrite the book.”
Mamma-san came to me with tears in her old tired eyes after
returning the uniform shirts to the soldiers with their new rank
sewn on. With a quick hug, she thanked me and at the same time
showed me a fist full of twenty dollar bills. I was proud of my new
men, for they paid this old woman more than a year‟s wages for
less than an hour‟s work.
Opening the doors to the Customs security checkpoint with the
view of the large World Airways 747 visible through the large
screen covered plate glass windows, I watched the soldiers as they
filed to the tables in a neat and orderly fashion. There was fear and
trepidation at the thoughts of the airport being bombed or that a
waiting plane would be shot down during their last moments of the
year spent in combat was abuzz on each soldier‟s lips. The air
filled with a thick and stifling atmosphere. It seemed that the
larger fear amongst the soldiers was wonderment of how they
would be welcomed home. The media had been convincing the
American public for the last couple of years, that these were baby
killers coming home instead of soldiers.
Looking out across the flightline, I found myself thinking I
could look through the small windows of the large jet and see my
old friend and lover Susan White. Lost for a moment in the fantasy
of prior erotic trysts, I heard a loud commotion behind me. “Hey

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motherfucker, that ain‟t my shit. You planted it motherfucker,”
came the cry from a battle worn soldier who had a panic look.
With darting eyes and sweat forming heavily on his brow and
upper lip he begged, “Come on man, I just want to go home.”
“Everything okay here?” I asked walking up and seeing a block of
what I figured was about 250 grams of pure heroin. “Kind of
stupid aren‟t you?” I asked the soldier bluntly, as I shook my head
in anger and disgust. “That motherfucker planted it,” he wailed
seeing the hopes of his returning to the world quickly
disappearing. “Bullshit,” I said nodding to my man that discovered
the drugs adding, “Hook him and book him. Get that asshole out
of my sight.”
Our detention cages were filled with seventeen soldiers by the
time the last flight took off for the world and we closed our
operation down for the day. Most were for minor drug possession
of just a joint or two of marijuana and I did not have the luxury of
deciding what an acceptable amount for possession was. In the
eyes of the armed forces, any amount even as small as a couple
seeds, was too much. SSgt. Taylor, our runt of the crew, that was
just barely an inch taller and ten pounds heavier than myself
laughed as he asked, “Can you believe that one dumb fuck?”
Pointing to the young Private that was in the cage banging his
head against the wall, “He walked right up to me with that joint
stuck behind his ear like a cigarette.” The entire group snickered at
the raw stupidity.
I didn‟t have the heart to tell my men that other than the three
soldiers they had busted for the larger possession of drugs, I would
not have the time nor would I have the inclination to testify in an

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Article 15 hearing, much less do the paperwork for the soldiers
with minor drug possession charges. I knew that they would
undoubtedly be transferred to Thailand where they would then
take an immediate flight home.
We moved our detention cages into view of all the soldiers
passing through our Customs check station. We kept a large open
lavatory between the cages and our check station to give any
soldier the private opportunity to dispose of any contraband they
had considered trying to smuggle through our checkpoint.
It was rather comical to see a young soldier hell bent, straight
on a path to our table for inspection with his duffle bag confidently
over his shoulder with that big 747 Freedom Bird just beyond the
window, slow his stride as he passed the cages holding the
detainees. Looking to the left with a long slow stare at the cages
and then a quick glance to our waiting tables and inspectors, the
soldier would take a sudden detour into the lavatory rushing for
the many stalls lining the walls and quickly slam the door. The
chain of comedy would continue when one of us would be inside
the lavatory using it for its intended purpose and see a soldier run
in and drop his pants with his feet facing the front of the toilet. We
laughed as we heard the cussing sounds when they realized the
water had been shut off and he would be unable to flush. We got
to the point where it was evident to us by the way a soldier walked
into the lavatory that we could walk in after his departure and
gather up a rather substantial amount of drugs and its
paraphernalia. The small amount, like the occasional joint, was
found just tossed on the lavatory floor along with the occasional
.45 handguns or AK-47 rifle broken down into its many parts.

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 We eventually learned that the concept of sending a jeep home
piece by piece was what urban legends were made of. Of all the
pieces of metal and strange looking objects we found in the
ensuing weeks, we never did find any jeep parts. But drugs? We
found drugs. I figured it took about two weeks for word to get
back to the soldiers in country that Saigon Airport was not the
place to smuggle drugs. My small band of dirty dozen was
receiving one hell of a reputation. As our reputation grew, so did
the pile of drugs we had on display on the large shelves
overlooking our tables.
“Captain Young,” I heard behind me, knowing by the gravely
tone with its usual touch of joviality, that it was Lt. Colonel
Parker. Raising my hand in salute, as I turned on my heel with a
smile on my face, I quickly reached out to take the Lt. Colonel‟s
hand that was offered in warm welcome. “Been reading some
good stuff about you and your boys,” he said as he also held up a
copy of yesterday‟s edition of the Washington Post. “Yes sir,” I
said adding, “Me and the boys have heard about it, but we haven‟t
had a chance to see the stateside newspapers yet. We‟ve been
looking in the Stars and Stripes, but it doesn‟t say a thing.” “Did
you really expect it to?” asked Lt. Colonel Parker. “No, not
really,” I said adding, “I believe the rumours and tall tales has had
more impact than any news story could anyway.” “Well this,” said
the Lt. Colonel as he smacked the newspaper on the table with an
emphasising slap, “Is what congress reads when they get up in the
morning. The General is happy, so I know you did your job well.
You ready to go back out in the field?” Thinking of the bond my
men and I had built I said quickly, “Ready right now Lt. Colonel

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Parker,” as I realized it would be dangerous for me to let the bond
between my men and I continue, much less increase.
Leaving Lt. Colonel Parker for a moment, I walked to SSgt.
Washington saying, “Call your men together.” It took about five
minutes to shut the Customs check lines down so they could fall in
at attention at the back of the large room.
This gave me a chance to get my emotions in order. As I
watched the men gather into formation, I realized that this was the
first time I had really felt so close to group of people that I could
almost call family. Nodding to SSgt. Washington and addressing
the group I said, “SSgt. Washington is now promoted to 2nd
Lieutenant. He will be your OIC who will report directly to Lt.
Colonel Parker, Adjutant to Commanding General, MACV,”
indicating Lt. Colonel Parker with a nod in his direction. Looking
carefully at the men I said, “SSgt. Taylor will be your new
NCOIC.” There were the congratulations and backslapping that I
expected as SSgt. Taylor‟s eyes glistened with the hidden tears of
pride. I knew I had left the group in well-deserved hands as I
backed out of sight and walked from the building with Lt. Colonel
Parker saying, “You make sure my boys get those orders backing
up those promotions.”
“You did good there Sgt. Young,” said Lt. Colonel Parker as he
led the way to his jeep. Looking in the back of the jeep I could see
a small bag from my apartment. Seeing my look of irritated
curiosity, wondering what the hell he was doing in my apartment,
Lt. Colonel Parker said quickly, “I had your man Du~ng pack you
a bag.” Eyeing the Lt. Colonel with an angry sidelong glance he
quickly added, “I had Maj. Kingsley with me and we figured you

217
would want to get out of uniform.” He gave a sheepish smile as he
added, “But your man said the apartment was booby trapped and if
that didn‟t kill us, he would. He made us go down to the street and
wait in the alley. I think that little old man was serious.” “He was,”
I said adding thoughtfully, “He would have killed you and dragged
your asses down to the Saigon River for fish food.” Inwardly I
smiled at Du~ng‟s devotion thinking, “Yes, they would be bloated
bodies feeding the fish.”
We arrived back at MACV Headquarters, and using the
General‟s private shower with his scented soaps and floral
fragranced shampoos, I washed the last few weeks out of my
system. As I dried off, using the fine Egyptian cotton towels with
the 7th Air Force monogram, I found that my hair that I kept
combed and plastered to my head with Vaseline had grown
substantially.
Dressed in my comfortable jeans, white linen shirt and cowboy
boots, with the Captain‟s uniform thrown out back in the
incinerator, I sat at the General‟s table that was filled with enough
food to feed half a dozen men. Begging off the offered wine I
asked, “What‟s next on the agenda?” “Well Sarge,” said Lt.
Colonel Parker as he waved the waiter over to serve the slightly
over cooked roast beef, “You made a hell of a dent in the drugs
that we believe have been coming out of Tan Son Nhut, but we
still have a big problem. Word from the Pentagon is that there may
be a cartel or some other organized effort, made up of American
soldiers, that is stepping into the CIA‟s playground. Pentagon has
information that these boys are moving as much heroin to the
streets of the United States as the CIA is.” “That doesn‟t figure

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though,” I said thoughtfully adding, “Unless they have an inside
tract onto the flightline for transport or if they have contact inside
the Post Office, I just can‟t see how they can move that amount of
drugs. Hell,” I said adding, “The damn CIA even has their private
C-130‟s.” “I don‟t know about the flightline, but we‟ve had men
inside the Post Office for over a year and the amount of drugs
coming through is minimal,” said Lt. Colonel Parker. “The larger
problem we have within the Post Office is soldiers trying to send
souvenir weapons back home piecemeal.” Smiling at the thought
of the rumor I had heard I asked, “Is it true, that some of these
soldiers are sending jeeps home piece by piece?” Looking at me
with a scowl he snapped, “That‟s all I need. That god-damn media
crawling up my ass over a god-damn jeep.”
Getting back to the issue at hand I asked, “Has anyone been
working on this?” Leaning back in his chair as he sipped coffee
from the delicate china cup he said, “OSI and CID say they have
been working with the CIA to track it down but they don‟t seem to
be getting anywhere.” Leaning forward I said quietly to Lt.
Colonel Parker, “The CIA doesn‟t work well with Air Force‟s
Office of Special Investigation and they have no respect for the
Army‟s Criminal Investigation Division. They don‟t let anyone
play in their sandbox.” Leaning back in the leather chair while
thoughtfully watching the shafts of sunlight giving vision to the
dust particles dancing through its glare, I added, “So what we have
is a major circle jerk between OSI and CID with the blind leading
the blind.” Looking at me blatantly, Lt. Colonel Parker said,
“That‟s about the way I figure it.”

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 I thought back to the many arrests and interrogations made in
the Customs Division in the last few weeks. I recalled the stories
that were repeated more times than I cared to count, as I explained
to Lt. Colonel Parker. “Word is out on the street and mind you not
confirmed at this point, is that some of the larger cities back in the
States had some of their boys join the military and volunteer to
come to Vietnam just to locate and ship high quality, yet
inexpensive drugs back to their neighborhoods.” “Well,” said Lt.
Colonel Parker with resignation, “There is something with
organization going on.” Standing up and walking to the window of
the dining room, I said quietly and at the same time asked myself,
“Deep cover again. When am I ever going to find out who I am?
This has got to end...”

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 Chapter 21
None of your damn business….

I
smiled with relief as I walked from the General‟s
quarters and saw Du~ng leaning against his cyclo
drawing hard at the cigarette between his lips, blowing
the cloud of smoke into the air just to watch it disappear gently in
the hot breeze. Seeing me walk toward him, there was the usual
wide toothless smile as he clasped his hands as if in prayer and
giving me a deep bow he said, “YoungˆToi, you have spent much
time being G.I. You come home now and take rest. You no more
be G.I.” Looking at him with a grateful smile and returning his
bow, I acknowledged the exhaustion of the last few weeks.
Climbing into the cyclo and noticing the new vibrantly colored
cushion Du~ng had installed on the seat, apparently for my
comfort, I watched my old friend primp and sashay like an old
movie star while taking quick glances at me to see if I would
notice. Looking at him curiously, it soon became apparent that he
wanted me to notice his new clothes. Looking closely I exclaimed

221
with enthusiasm, “Well look at you, all dressed up. What‟s the
special occasion?” Spinning as best he could like a ballerina, with
his old man gait, he showed off his new black silk pants and his
bright yellow silk shirt. Saying with pride, “Mamma-san say no
save money. Mamma-san say we have much money.” Smiling, he
reminded me of a bald headed capuchin monkey as he said, “We
spend much money today.” Puffing out his chest and trying to look
important, he said proudly, “We now have icebox.” I was
impressed, for owning an icebox or any type of refrigeration unit
by any of the locals was almost impossible. I knew later that
evening I would be helping Du~ng bolt it to the floor to make sure
it wasn‟t stolen.
Arriving at our apartment compound, Du~ng‟s children ran out
to give their father a hug, and quickly detoured into my arms as
they saw me. Laughing as I fell to the ground with their
exuberance, I begged them off by giving each of them a dollar.
Their bright questioning eyes glanced up respectfully to their
father as he knowingly smiled and chased them off with a
smattering of Vietnamese. Looking at Du~ng with curiosity I
asked, as I watched the children run from the compound laughing
and giggling, “I know this is none of my business, but are those
really your children?” Looking up at me and smiling, with me
feeling rather embarrassed I tried to clarify, “I mean, you are damn
near eighty years old and the way I feel, I would be lucky to be
able to do it when I get to be forty.” “Do it?” he asked. “You
know, fucky-fuck,” I said feeling embarrassed and like I was
digging a hole that a large ladder wouldn‟t be able to get me out
of. Du~ng‟s eyes twinkled as he led me deeper in the hole as he

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said, “Me no remember fucky-fuck.” Seeing the crimson rising in
my face and watching it deepen he let me off the hook by saying,
“One girl child, is Phuong, is granddaughter. Her father and my
daughter killed by Vietcong in Nha Trang. The other children are
from the street and have no mamma-san or papa-san. They are
called Ngo^n, Qui, and Bỉ̉̉̉ nh.” Feeling closer to Du~ng‟s family I
grabbed an old hand crank drill from his workbench as he took a
length of chain and some old rusted wrenches as we started to the
front door to secure his new icebox. As we sweated drilling the
holes in the frame of the icebox and attaching the chain to secure it
to the frame of the apartment, Du~ng looked at me out of the
corner of his eye as he laughingly said, “Mamma-san say only
fucky-fuck three times a week.”
Du~ng‟s wife, Ngoˆn came into the room and brought with her
a loud cackling that would rival the sounds of an old southern
henhouse. Unable to understand her fast moving sing song sound
of high pitched Vietnamese I looked at Du~ng in desperation.
Du~ng looked around imploringly as he tried to calm her. Startled
I asked, “Is everything okay? Did one of the children get hurt?”
Looking at me beseechingly for help he said, “She say she no like
how chain look on icebox.” Glancing down at the icebox and at
the room in general with the loose electrical wires hanging from
the ceiling and running down the walls, which would be an
electrician‟s nightmare, and the glass slats missing from the
windows, I knew then, that universally there would never be any
pleasing of a woman. Running up to my apartment I quickly
returned with a large rug and using Du~ng‟s knife I quickly cut
slits in it to fit around the legs of the icebox to effectively hide the

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chain. Ngoˆn looked at me with thankful scorn as Du~ng gave me
a smile like that of the Cheshire cat, then we quickly ran from the
room and escaped to Du~ng‟s garage.
With me sitting in the basket of the cyclo and Du~ng sitting
comfortably on his haunches, I told Du~ng of the last few weeks.
For the next several hours Du~ng tried to explain the history of the
opium trade in Vietnam.
“Opium has been problem long before French come here. In
the beginning it stays in tribes and in small villages and used as
medicine,” he said with a glance into the horizon as though trying
to bring back old and forgotten memories. Continuing slowly and
methodically, as though getting it right was important to him he
continued, “Much opium come from fields of Hmong Hill tribes.
Then Binh Xuyen bandits take from fields and they bring into
Saigon and other cities. There is story that bandits are run by white
American who run Corsican underworld.” Looking at the old man
lost in thought and wondering of the changes he had seen of his
country in his lifetime, I listened carefully and respectfully as he
continued with his stories and as he ended with, “YoungˆToi, there
is a man called Colonel Phen Kan Leiu I think maybe you should
talk to. He work with your CIA and he work with Vietcong. He
also commands Vietnam Marines and National Police.” Looking
at me carefully he admonished, “You be very careful. Many men
die for opium. You try stop opium, maybe you die.”
I knew that the adventures into the drug trade and the
subculture of Vietnam would be a dangerous one. I also had to
acknowledge that the opium trade was here long before I arrived
and would continue far after non-Asians left this beautiful country.

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Opium had its place in this culture and it took the white man
arriving here to pollute it with greed and need for self-indulgence.
That evening I looked down at the streets of Saigon from my
balcony as I felt anguish for the Americanization and corruption
we added to this beautiful city.
I left my apartment and walked the streets of Saigon. The
transformation of the city‟s character followed the changing of the
hours, as the moon lazed its way across the sky while searching
for the sunset, was thrilling and at the same time frightening. Early
evening brought the children and families onto the street for social
gatherings. The narrow alleys and streets were filled with gaiety
and laughter blended with the smell of cooking meats and rich
spices. The sidewalks teemed with vendors and their booths that
sold everything from various types of food delicacies to cigarettes.
It was an electrifying place to see and to be seen. Everywhere I
looked there were smiles. Even the soldiers from nearby Tan Son
Nhut and those that were able to escape from their respective
bases farther in country for a well needed break from combat,
added to the gaiety of the city with their freely spent dollars. The
bars were loud with the sounds of the Vietnamese versions of the
music of the Beach Boys and the likes of Jimmy Hendrix and the
Beatles. I smiled at the bargaining of the still innocent soldiers that
were trying to match wits with the streetwise young women that
made their living off the young men‟s passions. For about the cost
of lunch at McDonalds back home, they would each fool each
other tonight with promises of love and a future together. Looking
at them I said softly to myself, “Will I ever know what it is like to
truly love?”

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 The early evening gave way to darkness, and with the moon
high in the sky, there came the constant sounds of war continuing
outside of the city. As I leaned against the building, drawing deep
on my cigarette, and washing the smoke down with a Pepsi, I
could feel the vibrations through the walls of the dropping bombs
and flying mortars. As the vibrations grew in intensity, so did the
social vibrations of the city. In what seemed to be just a matter of
moments, but in reality was about an hour, the streets emptied of
the families and with it the humor and joviality. The younger
soldiers also disappeared only to be replaced by the soldiers that
were probably the same age yet appeared much older with their
seasoned combat experience.
The city took on a harder and more callous look, as the
atmosphere seemed to emanate danger from every shadow. The
girls were not the same ones that wanted love and romance with
their by the hour relationship. With the miniskirts that rose to
show off white cotton panties and legs made to look longer by
frightfully spiked high-heeled shoes, there was brought never
before imagined dangers. I stopped at the door of an old bar in the
Binh Thanh District where a crowd of soldiers and hookers were
talking in hushed yet excited voices. As an old rusted 1950 Ford
Station Wagon that had been converted into an ambulance pulled
up with its red light flashing and old siren on the roof slowing its
wail, I saw two Military Policemen carrying a soldier out whose
groin was covered in blood. Identifying myself, the Sergeant
responded to me with anger, “God damn asshole got himself
fucked by a gook.” Still looking at him questioningly, he added,
“The bitch put a booby trap in her pussy.” Not understanding, I

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followed them to the ambulance and while they placed the soldier
inside, the Military Policeman continued, “They take this
contraption like a spring loaded clam shell that is made of razor
blades and she tucks it inside her pussy. Then the bitch will tease
the hell out of you, and she‟ll hold you off until your cock is real
hard. You know, really tease the fuck out of you. She gets you to
the point where all you want is to slam it into her pussy.” Still
looking at him with question he continued, “Well sir, you can sure
slide it into her but when you pull it out, it‟s shredded. Those
damn razor blades will slice and dice your cock before you know
it.” Looking down at the young soldier writhing in pain, with the
blood still pumping from his groin, I said a little prayer that maybe
he had a secret desire to follow in the footsteps or should I say
stirrups, of Christine Jorgensen or Aleshia Brevard, the woman
famous for their sex change surgeries.
I continued down the street with the soldier‟s pain still running
through my mind as I watched the women of the street ply their
wares. In retrospect, I found them not nearly as enticing as I had
earlier in the evening. Turning the corner onto Tu Duo Street, with
the strong smell of marijuana wafting through the air, young
children and old men alike approached me in efforts to sell me the
dried weed with oils still oozing from the cut stems. Others would
come up to me with offers of opium or heroin. Taking one of the
older men aside I asked him of the availability of a kilo or more of
heroin. Looking at me with caution in a mixture of broken English
and Vietnamese, he told me about a nightclub called the Stars and
Bars, which was run by an American civilian that could help me
get all the opium I could ever want. After getting directions to the

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bar, I started down the street only to find the old man chasing after
me. Tugging at my sleeve he looked up at me with cow eyes as he
begged me to use caution as he said quietly, “You be careful.
Many dead G.I.‟s always in alley behind bar. American who own
bar likes to kill his own people.” Looking at him, I gently put my
hand on his shoulder and thanked him. As he turned, I stopped him
and offered him an American ten-dollar bill. Looking up at me
again he said, “You no have to pay me. You pay me by maybe kill
that American.” Wondering what the American was doing to these
people that would make a Vietnamese turn down what was
equivalent to more than a month‟s wages, I gratefully thanked him
for his concern with a low bow as I reached over and tucked the
ten dollar bill into his shirt pocket. I figured it would be much
safer to wait until daylight to return to the bar. The night and the
atmosphere was changing so quickly and I felt that to survive this
night I would need far more firepower than the .45 holstered under
my jacket.
The incessant horns of the taxis and whine of the little
motorcycles working their way through the early morning traffic
woke me with a start. Looking at the clock on my nightstand, I
rolled over. Laying with my hands tucked behind my head I
remembered the words of the old man last night warning me of the
American who ran the bar. Curiosity urged me on as I showered.
After lighting a cigarette, I opened a warm Pepsi while I fried a
couple eggs on the old and warm hotplate. “God damn icebox,” I
said as I kicked it and heard it whir back to life. Smiling at my
electrical repair skills, I left the apartment and walked downtown
towards the Stars and Bars Club.

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 It was a stone-faced structure with a strong French influence
hindered only by the bright neon signs hanging in the window.
There was a strange and unnatural quiet coming from the bar. The
open door and wide-open windows made it appear as though some
force had pulled the plug from all the partying from the night
before and the return flow was blocked by one of the largest
Vietnamese men I had ever encountered. He stood like a giant
statue at the front door. His six foot four inch, two hundred and
thirty pound frame held little beady eyes, like that of a bug, which
seemed to take in everything within his field of vision without
moving. Looking up at him as I passed through the door I said,
“Big motherfucker, aren‟t you? Momma must have been fucking
the Aussies.” My thoughts that big and dumb was universal
throughout the world was confirmed when my comment was met
with a grunt.
I was pleasantly surprised as I walked into the club. It was as
though I had been transferred back in time and space. The slow
spinning ceiling fans slowly circulated the cool air-conditioned air.
Spinning into the air was the delicate odor of spices and the long
ago familiar odor of hamburger with fried onions and the greasy
aroma of fresh deep fried French fries. Looking back toward the
origin of the aroma, I saw a young American woman, no older
than sixteen, balancing a tray filled with food and a bottle of Heinz
ketchup. I looked back toward the door of the bar to confirm that I
did not go through some mystical parallel universe that
transformed me back to the United States and saw the familiar
sight of bicycles, old cars, hoptacs and cyclos. Turning back
toward the bar, I took a seat at a table for four covered with a red

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and white checker tablecloth and real sterling silver enclosed in a
white linen napkin.
Waiting for the waitress, I looked at the artwork on the walls
and was impressed by what appeared to be rather magnificent and
expensive original works of art. On one wall, standing by itself
and lit with a portrait lamp, was a rather impressive piece that was
further protected by what appeared to be a steel frame with bullet
proof glass. Walking over to the painting, I was impressed to see
the brass plate underneath printed in Old English style type, “The
Resurrection” by Sandro Botticelli. As I stood there admiring the
fine work, I felt something hard pressing at the nape of my neck.
Knowing instinctively that it was a gun, I did not need the owner
of the weapon to tell me to raise my hands as I spread them
automatically. “Under my left arm,” I said as the figure behind me
patted me down. Reaching under my jacket, he pulled my gun
from the holster. By the size of his hand, I knew it was the giant
from the front door. Pulling on the hair at the back of my head, he
guided me to the table and said, “You sit. You no move.” “Forgive
my big friend,” the East coast educated accent behind me said.
Turning my head to look at the voice, I felt a slap at the back of
my head that sent me into the table giving me a bloody nose.
Wiping the blood from my nose with the back of my hand, I
looked over and saw a tall, thin, but muscular man with thin wire
frame glasses pulling out the chair next to me and seating himself.
With a wave of his hand he dismissed the giant, who moved
against the wall and continued to keep guard.
“I‟m Jack McAllister,” he said as he reached out his hand for
mine. Taking his hand, I said, “A pleasure,” as I gave a sidelong

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glance to the giant. Giving me a hard look he replied evenly,
“Trust me Mr. Young, it may not be. Word has it you‟re looking
into my business.” “What is your business?” I asked as I felt the
blood still dripping from my nose. Ignoring my question he said,
“I suggest you go back to your old section chief back at Langley
and maybe he can give you a clue of how deep you‟re treading
into some very dark and murky waters.” Trying to give him the
same even look, I asked, “Why don‟t you clue me in?” With a
grunt he replied, “I really don‟t have the time or inclination.”
“Well,” I said adding, “Maybe if you find the time and inclination
I may just be able to find out what I need to know and I won‟t
have to address your affairs.” Looking at me for a long moment
and then at his watch he said, “Meet me here for dinner at seven,”
adding, “And if you look at my daughter again, I‟ll kill you
myself.” Not waiting for my response, he looked at the large
Vietnamese still standing guard and with a nod of his head, I
found myself being escorted to the front door. “Asshole,” I said as
he handed back my weapon after ejecting the rounds from my
weapon onto the bar room floor.
I took a cab back to Tan Son Nhut and walked into the MACV
Headquarters hoping to dig for some background information on
this Jack McAllister. “Sgt. Young,” I heard from behind me.
Turning, I saw Maj. Kingsley and Lt. Colonel Parker walking
towards me. “Just the man we were going to send for,” Maj.
Kingsley said with relief. “We understand you had a run in with
Jack McAllister.” “Word sure travels quickly. I just left his bar
about forty minutes ago,” I said. “Yeah well, I guess he liked you.
He said he didn‟t want to have to kill you,” Lt. Colonel Parker

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said. “You know this guy?” I asked a bit incredulously. “We‟re
surprised you haven‟t heard of him,” Maj. Kingsley said. “He‟s
Section Chief CIA, Saigon. He has been handling just about all
intelligence in this region for a number of years.”
Taking a seat in Lt. Colonel Parker‟s office, I was handed a cup
of coffee by his secretary. Lt. Colonel Parker continued, “The CIA
was in this war long before the military was. The only way we can
keep our head above ground is through their intelligence.”
“Christ,” I said adding, “This is a damn third world country.
What‟s the problem?” “It‟s a long story and highly classified,”
said Lt. Colonel Parker. “I have the clearance,” I said.
Lt. Colonel Parker started slowly as he sipped his coffee and lit
his cigar, “When America replaced the French here after 1954, the
CIA inherited covert alliances and their involvement in opium
trading. In Laos in the early 1960‟s, the CIA battled communists
with a secret army of 30,000 Hmong highlanders. It was a secret
war, which implicated the CIA in that country‟s opium traffic.
Although the Agency did not profit directly from the drug trade,
the combat strength and covert action effectiveness of its secret
army was integrated with the Laotian opium trade.” Looking at Lt.
Colonel Parker I asked, “How did they do it? Better yet, why did
they do it?” Looking at me and then glancing at Maj. Kingsley, he
wiped his brow with the folded handkerchief and continued, “The
answer lies in the CIA‟s doctrine of covert action and its resulting
dependence upon the influence of local military leaders or
warlords. In Laos, a handful of CIA agents relied on tribal leaders
to motivate their troops and Lao generals to protect the cover of
this operation. After fighting here spilled over into Laos in 1965,

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the CIA recruited 30,000 Hmong highlanders into this secret army,
making the tribe a critical CIA asset. Between 1965 and 1970, the
Hmong guerrillas recovered downed U.S. pilots, battled local
communists, monitored the Ho Chi Minh Trail and protected the
radar that guided the U.S Air Force bombing of North Vietnam.
By 1970, according to our study, every Hmong family had lost
members. To fight this secret war, the CIA sent in American
agents in a ratio of one for every thousand Hmong guerrillas. That
made the Agency dependent upon tribal leaders who could
mobilize their people for this endless slaughter. The CIA chose
who got control over all air transport into Hmong villages that
were scattered across the mountaintops of northern Laos. They
handled the shipments of rice, their main subsistence commodity,
into the villages and flew out the opium, their only cash crop, out
to markets. With this control over every Hmong family‟s
household economy, these chosen leaders were transformed from
minor tribal warlords and into a cartel.
Breaking in I asked, “Couldn‟t they find a way to stop them or
control it better?” Holding up his hand to silence me he added,
“Since opium trading reinforced the authority of these Hmong
officers, our government found it necessary to tolerate the traffic.
The CIA‟s policy of tolerance towards its Laotian allies did not
change even when they began producing heroin to supply our
soldiers here. A couple years ago, it was rumoured that the CIA
opened a cluster of heroin laboratories in the Golden Triangle
region.”
Maj. Kingsley broke in and said, “Now you have the Hmong
officers loading opium on the CIA‟s aircraft and we have the

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Laotian army‟s big boys running a lab to supply the soldiers here.”
Angrily he added, “And the damn agency isn‟t doing a damn thing
about it. They say they‟re doing more good than harm.”
Leaning thoughtfully back in my seat and lighting a cigarette, I
said, “Now I know what Jack McAllister meant when he said I
was treading into dark and murky waters.” Maj. Kingsley broke in
saying, “In the scope of what we are trying to accomplish, I don‟t
believe it is in our best interest to tread into the CIA‟s playground.
I saw your orders Sgt. Young and I know of the reputation that
precedes you, but I have to ask, are you Air Force or are you
CIA?” Looking at him with a grin I replied, “Air Force Major,
pure Air Force.” Looking at me over the rim of his coffee cup he
replied, “Somehow I don‟t believe that.” Lt. Colonel Parker said
rather sharply, “I know you‟re Air Force, Sgt. Young, and that‟s
why you‟re not going to fuck around in the CIA‟s affairs. You are
a soldier first and we cannot afford the heat the CIA could bring
down on our ass. We‟re just too damn close to the end of this god-
damned war.” “Yes sir,” I replied. “What if my investigation leads
me into the CIA though?” “Well then Sergeant, you pack your
bags and move back on base and I‟ll find a place for you walking
the flightline.”
This was the first realization in many months that I was truly
and indeed a soldier. With the freedom that had been afforded me
since I had graduated from basic training, I had felt that I was a
civilian and pretty much exempt from military law. Looking at Lt.
Colonel Parker evenly I quietly said, “Yes sir.”
It was late in the evening with the full moon high in the sky, as
I walked into the Stars and Bars Club. The quiet bar I had

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remembered from early in the day was now loud with the drunken
whoops and hollers of the young soldiers trying to compete with
the sounds coming from the stage. A heavy layer of cigarette
smoke combined with the pungent odor of marijuana filled the
room. The stage held a trio of Vietnamese men and a very slight
Vietnamese woman trying to match the musical talents of Moby
Grape.
Lost in the sounds and stimulating atmosphere of the bar, I felt
a hand clasp itself on my shoulder. Tensing and ready for
confrontation, I looked back and found the mass of the giant
Vietnamese from earlier in the day having my shoulder firmly in
his grasp. “You come. Jack McAllister wants to see you.” Not
giving me a chance to decline, I was guided by the brut strength of
the man to a set of stairs and was roughly pushed up the first step
making it obvious that I was to continue the climb.
“Mr. Young, or should I say Sgt. Young, how wonderful to see
you again,” said Jack as he stood and motioned for his houseboy
to pull out my seat. “Thank you… Jack,” I said intentionally using
his first name only in attempts to gage the acceptance of
familiarity. Jack McAllister continued, “I understand you had a
talk with Lt. Colonel Parker this afternoon? The way I hear it, we
just might be able to be friends.” “Lets say I got myself an
education this afternoon,” I said, continuing, “My job here is to
stop the soldiers from smuggling drugs back to the United States.”
The waiter came with our food and I am sure my eyes widened
as he placed the thickest and juiciest hamburger I had ever seen in
front of me. “I took the pleasure of ordering for you when you
walked in the front door.” Pointing to the plate that held bright

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green lettuce, rich red tomato slices and sliced onions Jack said
“Unless you‟re used to it, don‟t eat any of the vegetables.”
“Why?” I asked. “It could give you dysentery. They don‟t have the
same fertilizer here that we have back home. Here, the best
fertilizer is human waste.” Looking at the vegetables, I made a
conscious decision that I would never eat vegetables again.
Trying to get back on the subject I said, “Look Jack, I‟m not
going to beat around the bush. I have to stop the drugs these
soldiers are shipping back to the world. I have no desire to step
into your or the CIA‟s affairs. It‟s none of my business.” “Damn
right it‟s none of your business,” Jack said sharply. Holding up my
hand to stop him I said, “You can help me and guide me to where I
should be looking or at the very least give me a starting point.”
“I‟ll make a deal with you,” Jack said. “During your investigation,
you find any place or any situation where my boys and the people
you are looking for cross paths; you give me the first shot at
handling it.” “The way I hear it though, is that the CIA and
Colonel Phen Kan Leiu has their hands wrapped around a whole
lot in this country,” I said. “I give you my word,” said Jack,
“Unless there is a rogue agent we wouldn‟t even stoop so low as to
work with what you‟re looking for. After all, we do have a little
bit of integrity. And Trent, I‟ll tell you as a friend, I wouldn‟t fuck
with Colonel Leiu. That son-of-a-bitch gets a sick and unnatural
thrill out of killing,” he said with a small smirk. Reaching across
the table, I took Jack‟s hand and looking him straight in the eye I
said firmly, “Deal.”
For the next couple of hours, over a half a pack of cigarettes
and many glasses of white wine, Jack gave me the details of the

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structure of drug transportation on a soldier‟s level. I wasn‟t
surprised when Jack explained that the newly installed Custom
Division that my dirty dozen and I had instituted did in fact make
a real dent in the drug traffic, thus necessitating a new method for
moving large quantities. “I haven‟t heard how they are moving the
opium off of Tan Son Nhut, but word has it they found a fool
proof way,” said Jack.
The night was unusually quiet as I walked back to my
apartment. Lost in thought, I was surprised at the loud explosion.
Turning the corner, I saw the bodies strewn through the street from
the mortar round that had found its way into the market place.
There was a sense of relief that it happened this late in the evening
rather than in the middle of the day. Knowing there was nothing I
could do, I continued on to my apartment where I finished off the
pack of cigarettes looking at the far off glow of napalm lighting
the night sky....

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 Chapter 22
Deep in the chest cavity, hidden….

“G
ood morning Sgt. Jackson,” I said reading the
name tag of the young black Security Policeman
looking down at me from the booking desk he
was controlling, as I walked into the bustling Provost Marshal‟s
Office. Before he could respond, we heard a loud commotion at
the front door. A large Security Policeman brought in a soldier
who was fighting and spitting to get free. “Let go of me you
fucking nigger,” screamed the young soldier in a back-country
southern drawl as he continued fighting. Looking up at Sgt.
Jackson I could see the smooth black skin give off beads of sweat
as his anger rose. The Security Policeman looked up at Sgt.
Jackson with a look that I knew was seeking permission to beat the
hell out of the soldier. Seeing that there were no visible indications
of approval he set the young soldier down on the booking bench
and looped the restraint chain attached to the floor at the base of
the bench through the handcuffs to keep him seated on the bench.

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 The young soldier kept screaming and yelling at the top of his
lungs about someone being a cocksucker and kicking at anyone
that would come within his reach. Quickly finding that he couldn‟t
reach anyone, he started to spit. I walked over to Sgt. Jackson and
again attempted to state my business when I heard, “Hey mister,
shoot that nigger for me. Help me get out of here.” Feeling the
headache growing, I walked over to the young soldier and
whispered into his ear, “That nigger is my cousin you raciest
prick.” Thankfully, he had enough hair to grasp as I grabbed it and
knocked his head against the wall effectively putting him into a
deep unconscious slumber.
There was an intense quiet. As I turned, looking at Sgt.
Jackson, the other Security Policeman, and the other prisoners in
the holding cage, I saw slight smiles crease their lips as I pointed
to my head and said, “Headache.” “What can I do for you?” said
Sgt Jackson. “I‟m Mr. Young. I need to see Maj. Kingsley,” I said.
Touching the button on his intercom, he announced me and
directed me to the Major‟s office.
Walking in and saluting I said, “Good morning Maj. Kingsley.”
Snapping a return salute he said, “What the hell is going on out
there?” “Don‟t know. Looked like one of those grunt red-neck
boys got a little out of hand and then decided to take a nap,” I said.
Ignoring my response he said, “What can I do for you?” For the
next hour, I laid out my plans and explained what I would need to
stop the exportation of drugs at the military level. “You know you
have all the support you need,” said Maj. Kingsley adding, “You
just do what you have to do. You get in a bind, you call me at any
time,” as he handed me his personal phone number at his quarters.

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 The small café was quiet in the early afternoon with just a few
of the local Vietnamese coming in to share in the idle chatter and
catch up on the latest gossip of the neighborhood. Sitting there
drinking the strong coffee and smoking a cigarette, I thought about
my conversation with Maj. Kingsley. Opening my briefcase, I
pulled out the reports that we had studied earlier.
The military had only been keeping statistics on drug arrests in
Vietnam since 1965. From 1965 through the end of 1967, there
were only 35 arrests for possession of marijuana. By 1968, when
the war was really starting to heat up, someone got a hair up their
ass and decided they needed to get rid of the soldiers that were
getting too stoned to fight and there were 45 arrests for every
10,000 soldiers, yet only 6 for opium. The words, “These damn
drugs are helping to kill more soldiers than the damn gooks. This
shit has got to stop,” rang in my ears remembering the
conversation with Maj. Kingsley. Reading on, I found that in 1969
the arrest rate rose to 8,000, but only a very small percentage was
for anything harder than marijuana, and 1970 found the number of
arrests increasing. I also noted that along with the increase in
arrests for drugs, so was the rise in the number of AWOL‟s,
deserters and combat refusals as well.
With Maj. Kingsley‟s promise of prosecution for all drug
arrests, no matter how insignificant, I found myself at the
afternoon briefing for the Office of Special Investigations
investigators at Tan Son Nhut. Looking at each of the twelve
investigators individually I said quietly, “For every fifty arrests
you make for heroin, opium, or anything stronger than marijuana,
you get a week in Bangkok.” Looking at the smiles of the men, I

240
heard from the back of the room, “And how long will we live after
the first arrest?” Looking to the back of the room, I saw the defiant
look of an older Sergeant. I pointed to him and said, “Sergeant,
you are not needed here. You will report to Maj. Kingsley,” as I
invited him to leave the room. I knew that within the hour, his gear
would be cleaned out of his billet and he would find himself on a
transport to Da Nang, where nightly fire-fights would dramatically
shorten his life expectancy. “Just don‟t need someone fucking up
the moral,” I thought to myself.
For the next several hours, with the help of these eleven
investigators, we laid out a plan where each arrest would be
efficient in time and prosecution. It was decided that unless the
offence was blatant or would give us a lead to a distribution point,
we would concentrate only on heroin and opium use. TSgt.
Thompson asked, “How do we keep from getting caught up in
testifying in court-martials within the first ten arrests?” I smiled as
I said, “Already thought of that. The MACV Staff Judge Advocate
said he could handle all the cases you can throw at him. The
prisoners that want to fight the system and plead innocent will be
housed in the U.S. Army Installation Stockade in Long Binh to
await court-martial.” “What if we bust some women?” asked TSgt.
Thompson. “We treat them all the same and female prisoners will
be housed there also. MACV said they‟ll make room for them,” I
replied firmly. “Isn‟t that the same prison that had the riot where
the blacks took over in 1968?” was the question from the back of
the room. I acknowledged the question with, “They said it was the
worst riot in American penal history.” Shrugging my shoulders I
added, “That‟s what they get if they want to play the game.” I

241
knew that the stockade at Long Binh, commonly know as “LBJ”,
was so feared that most of the prisoners there that were the worst
of the worst when it came to assault, rape and murder would rather
face the Vietcong than another day in that prison. Continuing I
added, “Otherwise they plead guilty here and they take the first
cargo plane to the Philippines where they will do their time and
then receive the appropriate discharge.” “And none of them
walk?” asked another investigator. “None… not one,” I replied
firmly repeating, “Not a god-damned one of them.”
There was general good humor throughout the room. Most of
the investigators came up to me, shook my hand, and thanked me
for the ability to finally do the job they were here to do. Knowing
that I had just let loose an eager bunch of OSI Investigators that
wanted nothing more than to be free to do what they had been
trained for, I left the building. As I gently closed the door I could
already see the men working as a team as they pulled out large
detailed maps of Tan Son Nhut, Saigon and the outlying
countryside. One of the investigators was already on the
telephone. Speaking with other investigators on bases throughout
Vietnam, he began working the leads, which they had long been
forced to ignore.
Leaving the building, and having great faith in the
investigators, I grabbed a taxi and headed home. As we drove
through the main gate of Tan Son Nhut, there were four soldiers
with their hands stretched across the hood of the Military Police
jeep and the Security Policemen were frisking them. Instructing
the taxi stop, I got out and identified myself. “What‟s going on
here?” I asked. “Well sir, word came down from OSI that for

242
every ten bust we get for hard drugs we get a shift off.” Shaking
my head and laughing I thought to myself, “Lord help the Staff
Judge Advocate. That son-of-a-bitch may have just bit off more
than he can chew.” Smiling and trying to hide my amusement I
said, “Yes soldier, you got the word right.”
It felt good to get home and I felt comfortable with the noise
outside my window. Du~ng knocked at my door and letting
himself in he handed me one of the two beers he was holding.
Sitting on the balcony overlooking the compound it felt good to
breathe the city air. It tasted different somehow. It tasted free. Not
the air of military order and annoyance, but a liberated and hassle
free air. I liked it.
We sat out there in abject silence until the stars filled the night
sky. As the moon rose, so did the sounds of the arriving B-52‟s
coming to drop death and destruction on the unsuspecting. Our
quiet was interrupted by a dull thud banging at the entrance to our
compound. Running down, Du~ng allowed the two Security
Policemen entrance as he pointed up at me. “Sir,” the one soldier
said breathlessly adding, “Maj. Kingsley has been trying to reach
you for the last three hours.” Looking back over my shoulder, I
could see that indeed the telephone was unplugged from the wall.
Reaching over and plugging it in, it immediately rang. “God damn
it, where have you been?” came the angered voice of Maj.
Kingsley. “Sorry sir, phone must have come unplugged,” I said.
“Well get your ass down here. I‟ve got damn near a hundred
prisoners down here for drug possession,” was the sharp reply.
With a loud explosion towards the outskirts of downtown Saigon,
the telephone went dead. Dropping the receiver back into the

243
cradle I said to the Security Policemen, “Damn phone went dead.
Fuck it, I‟m going to bed.”
I woke up early and lifting the receiver of the telephone, I
found that it was still dead. Du~ng was in the courtyard feeding
the chickens which he had somehow smuggled in. “Du~ng,” I
yelled down, “Saddle up, we‟re going to the base.” In apparent
happiness to escape his chores, he had the cyclo running by the
time I came downstairs.
My long hair blew in the wind as we wound our way through
the early morning streets. There was a cool crispness in the air.
The coolness felt refreshing, yet out of place in the normally hot
and humid air. We buzzed through the main gate of Tan Son Nhut
as we were recognized and passed through without slowing down.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the flash of six young
soldiers sitting on the ground in handcuffs apparently awaiting
transport.
Arriving at the Provost Marshal‟s office, Du~ng followed me
in and we were both taken aback with all the early morning chaos.
All the cells were filled and looking out to the rear of the building,
I could see a great many soldiers handcuffed together in a long
line. Standing there with his arms crossed, Maj. Kingsley gave me
an angry look as he said, “You started it, you handle it,” as he
turned on his heel and strode from the building.
The OSI Investigators who stood there with shining eyes told
the whole story. Men that wanted to do their job finally had the
chance and it spread to the other investigators and Security
Policemen that also wanted to do their jobs. TSgt. Thompson
approached me and proudly said, “This is happening all over the

244
Vietnam Theater,” as he spread his hands. Looking at him I asked,
“How many?” “One hundred and thirty and that‟s not counting
what‟s happening all over Vietnam,” he answered proudly.
Shaking my head in mild amusement, I asked, “And how many of
you are ready to take a week in Bangkok?” Looking at me
seriously TSgt. Thompson said, “We,” indicating the other OSI
Investigators, “Don‟t want time off. We have much work to do.
But,” he said adding, “You may have to give a couple of the
Security Policemen at the Main Gate some time off.” Hearing this,
one of the Security Policemen said, “Hell sir, we don‟t need any
time off. It‟s kind of nice to know that we are making a difference
somewhere.”
For the next several hours, with the MACV Staff Judge
Advocate holding court in the Provost Marshal‟s Office, we were
able to process all the prisoners. All except for four which were
sent to the stockade at Long Binh, were processed for transport to
confinement in the Philippines or back to the United States where
they would be confined pending further hearings. Those four
going to Long Binh were the ones I wanted to get my hands on.
Word quickly spread that the Military was taking a hard stance
on drug use in Vietnam. For the next several months, the number
of arrests for possession of heroin and opium continued to decline.
However, there were so many addicts in the ranks by this time,
that we always had an adequate amount of work to keep the Staff
Judge Advocate‟s Office busy. By midyear, we had processed
over 3,500 cases for hard drugs alone. Caught up in the
excitement, the Military Police concentrated on the regular drugs

245
and by end of year had over 12,000 cases on the books. We had
over 2,700 active and ongoing cases in the Vietnam Theater.
The U.S. Army Installation Stockade in Long Binh was as
filthy as it was large. Designed to hold 450 soldiers and being well
over capacity at 850, it was a dangerous place to be. Unable to
separate the prisoners by crime, it was not unusual to find a
deserter in the same cell as a soldier waiting trial for murder. Or as
in the cases I was dealing with, a drug dealer or smuggler in with a
rapist.
Sgt. Boyle banged his nightstick on the bars of the very small
cell, “PFC. Snyder, get your ass up here front and center.” There
was movement under the moth eaten blanket of the filthy cot.
“PFC. Snyder, don‟t make me come in and get you,” Sgt. Boyle
repeated as he again banged his nightstick loudly on the bars. The
blanket moved aside and an emaciated soldier crawled sickly from
underneath the blankets to stand at attention at the front of his cell.
I could immediately tell from his limped walk that he had been
used as a woman not long before. Sgt. Boyle had him turn and put
his hands behind his back where he in turn cuffed him and led him
from his cell to the interrogation room.
Dismissing Sgt. Boyle I invited the young soldier to have a seat
and offered him a cigarette after I removed his handcuffs.
Thanking me for the cigarette and declining the offer of a seat he
asked, “When can I get out of here?” “Well soldier,” I said
wistfully, “That‟s all up to you. You have some information I
need.” Looking at me he asked, “What do you need?” “What I
need,” trying to sound gentle and yet intimidating, “is for you to
tell me who and how heroin is being transported back to the

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world.” With the reflection of fear in his eyes he said, “Can‟t do it
sir. I‟d be dead before morning.” “You would rather stay here and
have some more of that Black Power shoved up your ass?” I
asked. PFC. Snyder turned his back on me and I knew as I
watched him being led back to his cell that even when he was
eventually discharged from the military, a prison cell would
always be his home.
For the next several hours I interviewed prisoners that were just
cocky enough to think they could play the system by asking for a
hearing at a court-martial and were naive enough to think they
could beat the drug charges. Little did they realize that we had
developed a chain of evidentiary custody, paperwork and
statement system, which would insure the prosecution of anyone
we chose.
“Good morning Sgt. Campbell,” I said to the young black
soldier who offered me an even stare. Looking down at the arrest
sheet, I saw that he had been assigned to Intelligence Analysis.
Looking at him over the edge of the folder he asked, “You want to
know why I was doing it?” “Not particularly,” I said. Begging a
cigarette from me, I threw him the pack of Marlboro‟s with a book
of matches. “I came from the ghettos of Detroit,” he started. “My
daddy left when I was a baby and about the only time I ever saw
him was when he stopped by to get my momma pregnant with my
brother and sister.” Looking at me to see if I was paying attention
as he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply and as I yawned, he
continued, “My momma worked her ass off to keep us off the
street. She would leave early in the morning and every night I
would watch her drag herself in just so she could put a little food

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on the table and some clothes on our backs. She worked her ass
off so we could go to school and get an education.” Holding my
hand up to stop him I said, “I don‟t need to hear your shit, nigger.”
Jumping up in indignation, he yelled back, “I ain‟t no nigger,
motherfucker. I‟m black.” Leaning forward in my seat I said
quietly, “No, you‟re a nigger. Only a nigger would disrespect all
the work your mother has done to make sure you have a good life.
Not only do you show disrespect for your mother but also Eldridge
Cleaver, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and other great black leaders
that have fought for and have always spoke up for your race.”
Looking at him with a forlorn look, I said gently, “Those are the
men that are black.” “Well I got‟s me black power,” he yelled
back, slipping into his recently lost ghetto lingo. Knowing that he
was fighting to keep himself from the edge of a cliff that he felt he
was quickly approaching I said, “Show me your black power. Tell
me how to stop the drugs that are killing your race and destroying
your neighborhoods.” The glisten of a tear showed at the corners
of his eyes as he said softly, “You know man, this shit is all fucked
up. Here I am and you know what? It was a junkie that killed my
momma.”
I listened to the story of his life. An inner city life that was so
different from mine. It held the same kind of hurts, yet they were
caused by different circumstances. Even through the racial barrier, I
saw a great deal of myself in this soldier. Sgt. Campbell went on to
explain the drug traffic in Vietnam as he knew it and at the end of an
hour of detailed explanation he said without excuse, “I just tried to get
a little bit ahead. Everything I have I send back home so my brother
and sister can just keep going.” Through his proud yet tear filled eyes

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he continued, “I can‟t nor do I expect you to understand sir, but I send
everything I make home and I don‟t keep any money. And some
months, it just isn‟t enough.”
“Pack up soldier,” I said as I stood up. Looking at me with what
seemed like thousands of questions in his eyes, I called in Sgt. Boyle
and instructed him to see to the immediate release of Sgt. Campbell.
“I can‟t do that sir,” said Sgt. Boyle. “You tell the warden to call Lt.
Colonel Parker, Adjutant to Commanding General, MACV and the
Staff Judge Advocate‟s Office. You tell them that this is at the request
of Mr. Young.” Looking at me doubtfully, Sgt. Boyle left the room
with Sgt. Campbell in my care. “You fuck your life up again and I‟ll
hunt you down and kill you myself,” I said to Sgt. Campbell
seriously. “Are you letting me go sir?” he asked incredulously. “You
should be processed out by morning and you will return to your
regular duties,” I said continuing, “And all charges will be dropped.”
As he reached out, I felt as though I were holding a young child in my
arms. As tears and deep sobs made his body tremble, I knew the thank
you whispers I heard would ring in my ears for many years to come.
As I left the room, I knew that I had not made a mistake.
I spent the afternoon in deep thought as Du~ng motored through
the countryside. Sgt. Campbell told me that the word was that there
was said to be a foolproof way of moving large amounts of heroin and
opium back to the United States in a vessel that was never inspected,
a way that would bypass customs. I wracked my brain of the myriad
of ways things moved in and out of this country.
For the next several weeks, Du~ng and I travelled what seemed to
be every inch of Tan Son Nhut. We covered the Motor Pools, where
we had each piece of equipment that was rotating back to the United

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States torn apart and reassembled to the dismay of the Commanders
of the Motor Pool. Not wanting the flightline to feel abandoned, I
held up more than my share of flights where battle weary and angry
soldiers waited in line to board as the K-9‟s and their handlers
covered every inch of the aircraft. For a few weeks, mail service was
in complete disarray as every package and letter was at the mercy of
the dogs. I found that the K-9 had a particular affection for those
letters that were sprinkled with Old Spice in efforts to bring back
some memories to the loved ones back home. Many of those letters
became lunch for the dogs.
I was beginning to get frustrated, as I had just spent the morning
covering and searching everything that moved in any direction with a
destination outside of Southeast Asia. It was getting to the point
where the F-4 jet jockeys would threaten to shove a claymore mine up
my ass if I got near their aircraft again. Leaning against my jeep, I
was lost in thought and concern. I had to be missing something.
Thinking of tomorrow being another day, I got in the jeep and sat
there with my head against the steering wheel as I heard a low whistle
that steadily increased in volume. Jerking my head up I saw the
explosion of a mortar round about a hundred yards in front of me.
Looking to the North end of the flightline, I saw more rounds strike
the tarmac as a jeep filled with soldiers raced a dog across the
flightline. Both tried to outrun the explosions. The dog won as the
jeep took a sideways hit causing it to flip over and roll over the
occupants. Just as quickly as it started, the bombing stopped. From
my vantage point, I could see that the flying shrapnel hit an incoming
Cobra helicopter. I watched anxiously as the pilot and his crew
quickly ran from the downed and smouldering aircraft. Looking at the

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jeep and its passengers that were strewn over the flightline, I started
the engine of my jeep. I knew that I would be riding up on death.
The mix of hot metal, gunpowder, and blood assaulted the senses.
Yet it was the body parts of a couple soldiers strewn across the
concrete, bathed in blood, which caused the nausea. I leaned over one
soldier whose legs were on the other side of the flightline. He was
looking up at me with concern as he slowly blinked his eyes and said,
“I can‟t feel my legs. Are they broken?” as he closed his eyes for the
last time. The large camouflage green ambulance with the large Red
Cross on the side arrived with its siren wailing. The corpsmen got out
and viewed the scene with boredom as they methodically yet urgently
went about loading the soldiers that were still alive into the
ambulance. As they departed, another smaller ambulance arrived. I
stood there as they gathered the pieces of human flesh and gently
deposited them into the black nylon body bags. “Hey you,” said the
corpsman trying to get my attention. “You want to give me a hand
lifting this in the back?” indicating the body bag. Lifting the formless
bag and putting it into the back of the ambulance, I turned and
watched as they filled the second and third bag with human parts.
“How do you know which parts go with which body?” I asked.
Looking at me and making me feel as though I was just a pesky gnat
to be tolerated, one corpsman looked at me indulgently and said
matter of factly, “We just do the best we can.”
I leaned against the ambulance, drawing hard on a cigarette as I
watched the practiced and methodical way they went about their
business as they finally tucked the found dog tags in an envelope and
zipped the bag closed and sealed it with a metal tag. “Why do you tag
it like that?” I asked. Giving me a look of impatience the corpsman

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said sarcastically, “So people like you don‟t fuck with it.” I watched
as the ambulance slowly drove away. The only memory of the
morning was the blood stains that the first rain would wash into the
concrete to mix with much more that I had not witnessed.
I lay in bed that night trying hard to fall asleep. I could feel a
nagging consciousness that I couldn‟t put into perspective. My
dreams were filled with the screaming sounds of incoming rockets
and mortars as I tried desperately to outrun the flying hot flack from
the explosion. The dreams soon found me in a sweat to fight free
from the bodybag that was covering me and smothering me. Pushing
hard and screaming, I woke to find myself tangled in my blankets and
sheets. Sitting up in bed naked with sweat pouring down my chest, I
heard Du~ng‟s anxious knock at the door. “YoungˆToi, you okay?” I
slowly wrapped a towel around myself and went to the door. Opening
it, I saw the concerned look on his face. “Nightmares,” I said. Inviting
him in, I went to the icebox and pulled out a couple warm Pepsis.
“God damn icebox,” I said as I kicked the damn thing back to life
again as the motor whirred.
As I told Du~ng of the day‟s events, I felt the slow emergence of
understanding. Feeling my excitement build and the flow of
understanding energizing my body, I said very slowly trying hard not
to scare away the thoughts that I knew were true, “Du~ng, do not say
a word. Do not ask any questions. Just get the cyclo going and meet
me downstairs.” I quickly stripped the towel and checking to see that
my .45 was loaded and that I had extra clips, I called Lt. Colonel
Parker. Not having time to explain, I simply asked him to trust me
and to put the Security Police Squadron on standby. Standing in the
middle of the room with the .45 tucked into its shoulder holster, I felt

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a chill from the ceiling fan drying the sweat from my still naked body.
Quickly dressing and looking up at the ceiling fan, I thanked the gods
that were in charge of appliances for saving me from embarrassment.
I ran downstairs to find Du~ng waiting. We pushed his cyclo out
of the compound to save the wrath of his nagging wife and halfway
down the street, he started it and we headed for Tan Son Nhut. We
were stopped at the gate as the Security Policeman asked, “Are you
Mr. Young?” Acknowledging that I was, we were interrupted by the
flashing red lights of Lt. Colonel Parker‟s jeep and driver.
The Security Policeman shrugged as he looked at me saying,
“He,” pointing to Lt. Colonel Parker as he stepped from the jeep,
“Said he wanted me to hold you here.” Walking to Lt. Colonel Parker
I snapped a salute, “Sir?” “I hope you have something god damn
important,” he said looking at his watch. “Two o‟clock in the morning
and whatever you got couldn‟t wait?” Finally realizing what time it
was, I said rather sheepishly, “It could have sir, but I think the rest of
your night‟s sleep will be a lot better when I show you what I‟ve got.”
“Climb in,” Lt. Colonel Parker said indicating his jeep. Pointing to his
driver I said, “He has got to go.” With a backwards glance, the young
Lieutenant gave me a snide glare as he turned and walked to the Main
Gate guard shack to call for a ride. Lt. Colonel Parker gave me a
curious look as I told Du~ng to hop in the back. I looked at Lt.
Colonel Parker as I said quaintly, “Your lieutenant won‟t get me
coffee will he?”
We pulled up in front of a long and low building with sandbags
covering the sidewalls almost to the roofline. There was a dim light
coming from the back of the building. Entering the wide double front
doors, we went down a hallway with doors on either side. Walking to

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the back of the building and looking through the glass windows in the
door, we saw a lone man in green scrubs adjusting the tubes that were
pumping formaldehyde in the body lying on the table. I watched for a
moment in fascination as Du~ng, made gurgling sounds as he held his
hands over his mouth to keep from vomiting. Putting my fingers to
my lips, I led them back to another set of doors. Peering inside with
my flashlight, I could see that it was a large freezer with shelves piled
with body bags apparently awaiting shipment back to the United
States.
Putting a blanket over the windows of the door, I switched on the
lights and was amazed at the number of bodies waiting for their final
freedom bird. Walking over to a body bag, I broke the seal and
unzipped the bag. “What the hell are you doing?” thundered Lt.
Colonel Parker. “Give me a minute,” I said holding up one finger,
with the other hand reaching down and examining the body. Reaching
through the incision at the chest cavity, I felt only the softness of
cavity packing material. Body after body, I broke the seals and
reached into the chest cavity. I could feel the heat of anger in the
room as Lt. Colonel Parker said with rage and anguish in his voice,
“What the holy god damn fuck do you think you are doing soldier?”
I ignored him as I unzipped another bag. Feeling the strong fingers
clamp down on my shoulder and spin me around to look at him, I
grasped the strange feeling object in my hand as it was ripped from
the chest cavity. Lt. Colonel Parker‟s and my jaw dropped as we both
looked at the large package of white powder still clasped in my hand.
Without a word, we both turned as I pulled out my knife and opened
the chest cavity of the young Marine that lay there.

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 Deep in the chest cavity, hidden in between the packing cotton,
were four kilos or just about nine pounds of heroin. Turning slowly
and looking at me Lt. Colonel Parker said softly, “Son of a bitch. Our
own soldiers.” Reaching to his belt, he keyed the radio and said,
“Shut the base down.”

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 Chapter 23
I’m going to miss this war….

T
he darkness hid the ground as the buildings shook with
the heavy claps of thunder rolling across Tan Son Nhut
Airbase. The smell of electricity was hot from the bright
streaks of lightning that turned the darkness into day while the strong
charges of energy running along the ground raised the hair on our
arms. We sat under the tarp covered balcony of the Officer‟s Club,
waiting for the cooling relief from the humidity that would be brought
by the heavy rain, as we each reminisced the day‟s events which we
were sure would go down in history.
“This was a good day,” said Lt. Colonel Parker as he raised his
bottle of beer in salute. Maj. Kingsley and I touched our bottles to his
as I said, “It was good to see those POW‟s finally free. Could you
believe those North Vietnamese standing on the tarmac next to those
Freedom Birds all cocky like there never was a war?” Maj. Kingsley
added with sarcastic annoyance, “Well, you can bet your sweet ass I
wasn‟t the only one standing out there that wanted to take a shot at

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those little yellow motherfuckers.” Lt. Colonel Parker leaned back in
his chair as he yawned and stretched saying, “I‟m going to miss this
war.” We all shook our heads in agreement quietly cursing President
Nixon and Henry Kissinger for ending this war.
I sat in the hotel just off base, waiting for the jeep to pick me up
and give me my final ride to Tan Son Nhut Airport. Cleaning my
weapons and making sure they were securely packed and in order for
my next assignment, I let my mind replay the last days of the war.
Yes, the Vietnam War is finally over. Yesterday, I sat on the tarmac
watching the Galaxy C5A Transport arrive, so large that it appeared
to be floating across the sky in slow motion, and land in a smooth
practiced fashion. I closely watched the faces of the sixty- seven
soldiers that they say are the last residents of the Hanoi Hilton, as
they exited the aircraft. Many appeared to be weak from lack of
nutrition yet proudly saluted the American Flag and those officers
that were there to greet them. Yet they all had an apprehensive look
about them. I could only wonder of the feeling of fear that the
freedom so long dreamed of, was just that, a dream. I wondered how
history would repay these soldiers who gave so selflessly and so
proudly. The incessant beeping of a horn interrupted my thoughts. I
looked out the window and saw the typical blue and yellow taxi, my
ride to my freedom bird. I really was going to miss the beauty of this
country. “Hey,” I yelled down, “be there in a moment.”
As I looked out the window of the slow climbing C-130, with the
setting sun gently dipping into the horizon, I was in awe of the
multitude of yellows, reds, purples and blues painting the sky. I let
my mind go back over the past many months. I considered, for a
moment, the many soldiers lives that I had inadvertently changed and

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maybe ruined with the drug arrests I made during my stay in Vietnam.
However, what I considered longer and with passion was the thought
of the friends I had made in country. Lt. Colonel Parker was being
promoted to Full Bird Colonel and rotating back to the United States.
Maj. Kinsley, who was issued orders for Yokota AB, Japan, smiled at
us as he said, “Now I can get me a good wife.” Deep in thought and
with a satisfied grin I rarely saw, he asked me, “Where you going
Sarge?” I smiled as I said, “Just another adventure,” knowing that I
couldn‟t tell him even if I wanted to.
Most of all I would miss my friend Du~ng Ho`ang, who had
become like a father and a brother to me. I thought back to the last
time I saw him as we stood together in the courtyard of the
compound, as his children peeked at us from behind his wife‟s black
pajamas. As we both stood there facing each other, we each tried to
burn memories in our minds. Memories that we both knew would
soon fade with the rigors of life. I reached out my fingers, touched the
tears of the old man and put the fingers to my lips, tasting the salt of
his tears, showing him that a part of him would always be a part of
me. We both knew our promises to see each other again soon were
lies. I knew I would never be coming back to Vietnam and he knew
that in his advanced age, he did not have much longer for this world. I
hoped that the $1,500 in United States greenback I handed him in an
envelope would buy him some peace and quiet from his endless
nagging wife. “I wish I had more,” I said knowing that even this small
amount of money would make his life in this country much easier.
The constant droning of the big plane‟s engine caused my eyelids
to droop as I sat comfortably in the cargo-netting seat. A deep empty
blackness took over the canvas of the sky as I thought of the

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adventures that lay ahead in Nakhon Phanom Royal Thai Air Force
Base, Thailand. The memories of Vietnam seemed to disappear
equally as fast as the setting sun. The dreamless nap was short. The
six hundred mile trip was quickly ending as I felt the C-130 cargo
plane shudder as the landing gear lowered and locked into place.
It was the middle of the night with the moon dimmed behind the
high clouds as I stepped onto the tarmac of Nakhon Phanom Royal
Thai Airbase, Thailand. Lifting my nose into the air it almost smelled
like Vietnam. Noticing my attempt to understand the difference in
smell, the flight navigator who stood beside me lighting a cigarette
said, “It‟s the smell of napalm you‟re missing.” Turning and looking
at him curiously he repeated, “The smell of napalm. You can smell
the cordite but there is no napalm.”
The jeep ride to my new quarters on base was short and
uneventful. I was still in Southeast Asia, yet being more than five
hundred miles closer to Hanoi, I felt safer. It was rather strange to see
the lack of concertina wire and sand bags protecting the living
quarters. The long squat redwood faced buildings impressed me with
long wide decking running the length, to provide a comfortable
homelike ambience.
We pulled up to the quarters that would be my home until the next
adventure. Grabbing my bags, the young Airman led the way to my
front door. Handing me the keys he asked, “Is there anything else you
might need?” Thanking him and declining the offer I turned the key,
opened the door and marvelled at the comfortable setting that met me.
I was equally impressed by the blast of cool air that enveloped me
from the quietly humming air conditioner.

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 I stood in the open doorway and listened for the sounds of the
jungle being over shadowed by the sounds of the aircraft on the
flightline as I tried to gage the location of the perimeter. The young
Airman interrupted me by slapping his forehead and saying, “Damn,
almost forgot. The Provost Marshal, Capt. Sciarrino wants you to
report to him in the morning. Shall I send a jeep for you?” “Sounds
good to me,” I said adding, “Say 0700 hours?” Dropping my bags and
not bothering to unpack, I stripped down and fell onto the bed into a
deep and dreamless sleep.
“Sgt. Young,” I heard along with the sharp knocking at the door.
“Sgt. Young, are you in there?” Stumbling to my feet and wrapping a
towel around my naked body, I opened the door to be met by what
was undoubtedly the brightest sunrise I had ever seen. Framed in the
glare and looking like a black silhouette was the young Airman that
had dropped me off just a few short hours before. Looking at my
watch and seeing it was six-thirty, I whispered hoarsely, “Damn, what
a way to start a new assignment.”
The young Airman proved his driving expertise as he wheeled his
way through the base bringing me to the front door of the Provost
Marshal‟s Office with two minutes to spare. Thanking the young
Airman, I quickly ran up the steps and through the door. Ignoring the
Airman sitting at the desk giving me a questioning look, I saw a sign
indicating Capt. Sciarrino‟s office. Trying to control my hard
breathing, I rapped at the doorframe. Turning his head from the bent
over position at the filing cabinet was the quick smile and
outstretched hand of a very large man with equally large hands.
Noticing the look of awe on my face as my hand disappeared in his,

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he gave a huge grin as he said, “Comes in handy playing softball. I‟m
Capt. Peter Sciarrino.”
For the next hour, Capt. Sciarrino explained Nakhon Phanom
Royal Thai Airbase operations and its little idiosyncrasies. Our
conversation reduced itself to just idle banter and I asked, “Captain,
any idea why I came here instead of being rotated back to the world?”
Looking at me with the humor in his eyes replaced by a serious yet
fatherly look he said, “I got a call from Washington D.C. last week
and was instructed to keep you comfortable and available. I called
Maj. Kingsley in Saigon when I got word you were coming and he
said that you‟re a good man and to just give you free reign.” “Son-of-
bitch,” I said with a smile, “He knew where I was going the whole
time.”
For the next couple of weeks I appeared in formation with the rest
of the 56th Security Police Squadron in uniform. It was a comfortable
and relaxed feeling to act like a normal soldier. I enjoyed the peace
and quiet of sitting in the towers of the perimeter listening to jungle
life. As the flight leader would travel from tower to tower, bringing
coffee and sandwiches, we would talk of life back in the world as we
listened to the jungle creatures tease each other with their mating
calls. We would always laugh fatuously when the birds would call out
“re-up” and the gecko‟s, common to the area, would return the call
with a sound that mimicked, “fuck-you.”
The city of Nakhon Phanom, unlike Saigon, was a much smaller
city that sat on the banks of the Mekong River. Travel to the city was
an adventure in itself. The nine mile bus ride was through a
countryside that was filled with rice paddies and old farmers working
the field led by their oxen and old wooden plow. Looking beyond the

261
surface, one was aware of the undeniable beauty and charm to this
culture. A simple culture that had whole families working together in
the fields with the goal to bring in a crop that would feed them for the
coming year and maybe produce a stipend that would allow them the
luxury of a store purchase. It was so very surreal to find such
innocence that was so close, yet so far removed from the war.
Nakhon Phanom City was a beautiful city with its paved roads,
temples and hotels catering to the American soldiers. The doors to the
multitude of shops were wide open and the shops were filled with an
abundant amount of interesting objects from jewelry and herbs to war
souvenirs that would keep one busy for days just exploring the small
nooks and crannies. Shopkeepers had a wide and inviting smile as
they begged you to come in and shop their wares. As I explored the
shops, I found myself glancing up and down the street looking for
zappers. I instinctively knew that there was no reason for concern.
The City Police and Thai Military Police presence was strong in this
small city. I even felt comfort as I noticed the Air Force Law
Enforcement Town Patrol giving me a hard questioning look as they
drove by in their jeep.
Like Saigon, the ladies of the night were out in droves. But again,
this country so much like Vietnam was differentiated by the gaiety of
the singsong language tendered with a true happiness. The women
here also seemed to be more attractive. Maybe it was their attempts at
mimicking Western culture, with their too short mini skirts showing
their small white panties as they walked. It was refreshing to see the
long traditional, yet multicolored sarongs cleaned and starched to
perfection, reflecting the light as they walked carrying their baskets of
produce and fish wrapped in banana leaves for the evening meal.

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 Of course, I found the seedy part of town that every city held. I
was distracted from the young children‟s offers of everything from
marijuana to heroin by the sounds coming from the balconies of the
small apartments. Leaning over the balconies were several of the most
beautiful women I had yet the pleasure of introducing myself to.
While gazing up at the balcony of one brightly painted apartment and
admiring the half-naked beauties, a young Thai boy said, “You G.I.?”
as he looked curiously at my longer than regulation hair. “Yep, sure
am,” I said still distracted by the woman on the balcony yelling down,
“Come up G.I., I love you long time. Only fifty Baht.” The Thai boy
chided, “G.I. like katoey?” Looking up, still in total distraction, I
mumbled, “Oh yes, I like katoey,” thinking what a strange name for
these beauties. Pointing up to a tall thin woman with a shirt of very
thin gauze like material that accentuated her small breasts with pert
nipples, which she rubbed between her fingers, he said, “You love my
sister long time, only fifty Baht.” Looking down at the young boy I
asked incredulously, “Your sister?” Beaming at me with a huge grin
he proudly pointed back at the woman that now stood at the edge of
the balcony with her legs spread apart giving me an ample view.
Looking up and calculating the monetary exchange rate for fifty Baht,
I did a double take. There under the short skirt was a cock. Looking
back up to the woman‟s smiling face and back underneath the skirt
again, I looked at the young Thai boy and said whiningly, “That
woman has got a cock.” The young Thai boy looked at me, shaking
his head up and down with an even broader grin said, “Yes, katoey.”
The nine mile taxi ride back to the base was gratefully uneventful,
and as the cab dropped me off at the main gate, I could see a large
commotion. Approaching the gate, I saw two young Security

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Policemen that were trying, with great difficulty, to make an arrest on
a large muscular soldier. I said nonchalantly, “You boys need some
help?” The smaller of the two Security Policemen, trying desperately
to pull the large flailing arm to the small of the soldier‟s back while
the other Security Policeman had his arms around the kicking legs,
looked up at me and said with desperation, “Yeah, can you help me
cuff this asshole.” Bending over and looking in the face of the large
offender I said quietly, “Give it up big boy. You‟re going to jail one
way or another.” As the large soldier mustered up a large glob of spit
and effectively put it in my face, the young Security Policeman
implored, “Come on, grab his arm.” Winking at the young Security
Policeman I pulled out my .38 Caliber revolver and effectively placed
the barrel between the large soldier‟s lips, pulling the hammer of the
weapon back. As I pushed the weapon further in his mouth, I got his
attention along with the sounds of choking. I said still quietly and
evenly, “Motherfucker, I said you are going to jail. You are under
arrest.” The large soldier‟s body went limp with acceptance and the
Security Policeman quickly cuffed him. As the soldier was loaded
into the Security Police jeep that finally arrived for backup, the young
Security Policeman said, still out of breath, “Don‟t know how to
thank you, and I sure am glad you came along. You OSI or
something?” he asked indicating the bulge under my shirt housing the
.38. Smiling I said, “Or something. What were you busting him for?”
Looking about nervously as if he was about to let out a big secret he
said quietly, “Drugs.” “Figures,” I said quietly to myself adding,
“Should have known that it‟s not exclusive to the „Nam.” Looking
seriously at the young Security Policeman I asked, “You guys got a
big drug problem here?” Giving me a long sideways glance as if I was

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crazy he said sarcastically, “Christ man, you must be a cherry. You
haven‟t smelled the marijuana coming out of damn near every hooch
on this base? Hell man, go down to the damn Detox Center. It‟s full
of guys trying to get off the smack.” Shaking his head in disgust and
pointing his thumb over his shoulder indicating Nakhon Phanom City
he said, “That damn city and those little yellow fuckers are turning a
lot of these guys into drug addicts.”
I woke early the next morning and as I sat on the balcony outside
my room, I could detect the strong pungent odor of marijuana riding
on the breeze accompanied by the smell of bacon and eggs coming
from the mess hall. Quickly showering and dressing I called for a jeep
to take me to the Provost Marshal‟s Office.
The Provost Marshal‟s Office was abuzz with activity as I walked
in. The morning briefing was just ending and the Security Policemen
were on their way out the door to their posted assignments for the
day. The two Security Policemen from the prior day‟s arrest saw me
and yelled to their buddies, “Hey, this is the guy I was telling you
about. That‟s the guy who pulled out his shit and helped us make the
arrest.” Getting looks of admiration, I waved as I quickly ducked into
Capt. Sciarrino‟s office.
Capt. Sciarrino took my hand and shook it as he invited me to sit
down saying, “Heard you helped my boys out yesterday.” Waving
him off I said, “They just about had him. I was just there for the end
and really didn‟t do anything.”
Leaning back in the chair and thanking the young Thai woman
that brought in a coffee service, I said rather matter of factly, “Word
is that there is a major drug problem on the base.” Giving me a hard
look Capt. Sciarrino said quietly, “You get right to the point, don‟t

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you? Yeah we got a drug issue here. But we haven‟t been allowed to
touch it.” “Why not?” I asked. Looking out the window with his
hands steepled as if in prayer he said, “We are a support unit here.
Damn near every soldier assigned to this base has a Top Secret
Clearance. A great many of them have a much higher security
clearance and their jobs are essential and classified. You bust the
wrong guy, and you could shut an entire operation down.” Shaking
my head in disgust, I said sarcastically, “The God-damned war is
over. In a year or two this base is going to shut down. What are you
going to do? Send all these addicts back home and put them on the
streets? Could you imagine if one of these guys gets assigned to the
Pentagon or NSA?” Looking at me with a flush of anger rising on his
face, Capt. Sciarrino said hotly, “You‟re a cocky little asshole. Think
you can clean it up?” With a smile on my face, I said seriously, “Just
set me free Captain, just set me free.”
Shaking his head as though thoroughly amused he yelled through
the open office door, “TSgt. Gabriel, would you step in for a
moment?” Through the door walked the smiling face of TSgt.
Gabriel. I knew instinctively by the kindness of the eyes, thick black
hair and the moustachioed face, his would be one I would remember
for years. “Captain,” the moustachioed face said as TSgt. Gabriel
walked, saluting the Captain and giving me a nod of
acknowledgement. Indicating the empty chair next to me Capt.
Sciarrino said, “Take a seat.” Pointing at me he said, “This young
buck thinks he can put a dent in our drug problem.” Giving me a long
sideways glance TSgt. Gabriel said matter-of-factly, “If this is the guy
I heard about I figure all we have to do is set him free and hold on for
the ride.” Capt. Sciarrino gave him a look as though he was insane

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and TSgt. Gabriel continued, “Capt. Sciarrino, it has been my
experience that if you give a man the freedom to do the job he will
find a way to do the best job possible.” Smiling and standing up Capt.
Sciarrino said with a grin, “Well, looks like he is one of your boys
now….”

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 Chapter 24
You have the right to remain silent…

“I
wasn‟t joking around when I said you will have
complete freedom and autonomy,” said TSgt. Gabriel
adding, “I will give you all the support you need. Just
give me clean busts and nothing that would embarrass either one of us
in a court-martial.” “No problem Sarge,” I said confidently. “Clean is
the only way I do it,” as I laughingly added, “Helps to keep the
dragons out of my dreams at night.”
I wasn‟t assigned an office. Knowing that most of my work would
be done at night, I looked around the administrative office and was
confident that I would always have one of the desks available to do
my paperwork. I studied the large map of Nakhon Phanom Royal
Thai Airbase on the wall of the Provost Marshal‟s Office, trying to
gage the size and location of the billeting and sensitive support
locations.
The sun had set and the moon was starting its journey across the
sky as I walked to the Motor Pool with a happy and nonchalant gait
breathing in the fresh air. Thankful that I had gone through the effort
to keep my long hair coated with Vaseline to obscure its true length, it
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felt good to have the wind blowing through it again. The four-inch .38
caliber revolver was tucked in its holster at the small of my back
while its mate with a barrel two inches shorter was chafing my ankle
in its holster.
Walking into the yard of the Motor Pool I could smell the strong
pungent odor of marijuana. As I pulled my .38 from its holster and
held it at my side, I thought of what wonderful timing to get my test
case. Here I was to pick up my jeep for patrol and I would already
have a passenger. Leaning against the building was a young soldier
taking a long drag off a crudely rolled joint. Holding my gun behind
my back, I approached the young soldier who coughed and gagged on
the strong smoke he was holding deep in his lungs. I quietly emerged
from the shadows surprising him. Seeing my long hair he quickly
relaxed and gave me a sheepish smile as he held out the joint saying,
“You scared the shit out of me man.” I looked at him and giving him
a quick smile said, “Hey, it‟s all cool man.” Relaxing more he said,
“Fuckin‟ groovy dude, want some Thai Stick? Fucker‟s dripping a
shit load of oil, man.”
I smiled as I wondered if this young kid was going to comprehend
being arrested in this stoned state. More so, I wondered at the
reliability of the jeep I would be getting from this Motor Pool,
especially if he was the one who maintained it. I took the offered joint
from the soldier, tamped it out on the bottom of my boot and said,
“I‟ll spark it up after you get me my jeep.” Looking at me and then
hungrily at my shirt pocket that held the joint he asked, “What‟s the
last name man?” “Young,” I said casually as I watched his eyes widen
as he read that the jeep reserved for me was equipped with a red light
and a siren. Quickly returning with the jeep, he must have done some

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unique reasoning, for when he returned he said, quite stupidly, “Hey
dude. You kind of scared me man.” He gave a stoned chortle as he
added, “I thought for a second you were a pig, man.” “Oink Oink,
motherfucker, guess I am a pig and you are under arrest for
possession and use of marijuana.” The forlorn look on his face was
priceless as I started to read him his rights under Article 31 of the
UCMJ, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can
and will be held against you in…”
Quickly cuffing the young soldier and signing for the jeep, I
placed him in the back and drove to the Provost Marshal‟s Office. As
I drove, listening to the whimpering and pleas coming from the back
of the jeep, I smiled as I enjoyed the cooling breeze blowing in my
face from the windowless jeep.
Entering the Provost Marshal‟s Office with my prisoner, I quickly
did the appropriate paperwork and booked the soldier. This one was
not going to make a dent in the problem. The kid was just in the
wrong place at the wrong time and I had convinced myself that in the
interest of fairness, this base was going to get a zero tolerance policy
on drug use. I figured the real impact would be with the soldiers
holding the high security clearances. Within a half hour I was again in
the jeep looking for a cellmate for my first arrest.
I drove down to the main gate of the base where the Security
Policeman stationed there immediately recognized me. “How‟s it
going guys?” “Quiet and boring,” was the quick reply from the
Sergeant who‟s name tag read Pierce. “I believe I would much rather
have your job,” he added with a smile. “Fuck that shit,” said the tall
thin black Security Policeman, with his two stripes accompanying the
name Knox, as he added with a smirk, “Someone‟s going to put a

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bullet in your ass real quick.” “That remains to be seen,” I shot back.
Taking Sgt. Pierce aside and sharing a cigarette, I said quietly, “You
know, there are a lot of Security Policemen that made their bones
back in the „Nam right at the main gate. Some of those boys were
doing ten to fifteen busts a day for drugs.” Jerking his thumb over his
shoulder indicating A1C Knox, Sgt. Pierce said quietly, “Yeah, but
that asshole knows every motherfucker that comes on this base and he
has a way of letting those assholes know that it isn‟t cool.” “Well hell,
let‟s see if we can fuck up his day.”
Walking up to A1C Knox I handed him the keys to my jeep as I
said, “Run it up to the Motor Pool and fuel it for me.” “Can‟t do it
man. Can‟t leave my post,” he replied with a sneer. Ignoring him and
picking up the telephone and speaking into it for a moment, I handed
him the receiver and I watched as his black skin took on an ashen
color as he hung up the phone with, “Yes Lieutenant.” Snatching the
dangled keys angrily from my outstretched hand, he tromped to the
jeep spraying a wall of gravel as he gunned the engine and
accelerated out of sight. With a shocked look on his face, Sgt. Pierce
asked, “Who was on the telephone?” I laughed as I said, “It was one
of the cooks at the mess hall.” Looking at me curiously I added, “It
isn‟t important who it is, rather, who you think it is.”
I knew Sgt. Pierce and I had an hour to change the image of the
Main Gate. For the next hour, I taught him what to look for. “Look at
the way they walk up to the gate. See how serious some of them are?
Those are the stoned ones trying to look cool. Now when they get up
close and hand you their ID, look at the pupils of their eyes and see
how they dilate. Also notice that the increased heart rate will make

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the white part of the eyes turn red.” I laughed as I added, “Also, you
can just plain smell the shit on them.”
For the next hour, Sgt. Pierce and I made arrest after arrest. It was
strange that with many of the arrests they kept making the comment
that they thought A1C Knox was working the gate. I thought about
throwing A1C Knox to the wolves by telling them that A1C Knox
told us it would be a good night for some drug busts, but deep down I
knew there was something much larger here and that if I did, I knew
instinctively that A1C Knox would be dead by morning.
At the same time A1C Knox returned with my jeep, a deuce and a
half truck pulled up to transport our seven prisoners. “What the fuck
is this?” A1C Knox asked agitatedly, seeing the cuffed soldiers
standing to one side of the gate. Ignoring A1C Knox, Sgt. Pierce and I
loaded the prisoners in the large truck. As the prisoner filled truck
pulled away, with Sgt. Pierce proudly standing in the back on guard, I
approached A1C Knox and quietly whispered into his ear, “I don‟t
know who the fuck you have been fooling, but you are a bad cop. Bad
cops go down asshole.” “Fuck you,” was the curt reply. “I got sixty
days left and I‟ll be out of this God-damned Air Force. I got this shit
wired. I own this motherfucking town.”
I woke early in the morning. The temperature was at 96 degrees
and the humidity was already at 83% under a cloudless sky. Jumping
into my jeep and driving to the dining hall, I passed Capt. Sciarrino
walking out of the Officer‟s Compound. Pulling over to the side and
offering a ride, we were soon in a discussion on the prior night‟s
events. “He very well could have this town wired,” said Capt.
Sciarrino referring to A1C Knox. “The man does have just about four
years in the Air Force and he has spent the majority of his tour of duty

272
here in Thailand.” Shaking his head in wonderment he added, “The
man knows the language just like a native, and he knows the culture.
Did you know his wife is Thai and he has got two kids with her?”
Thinking for a moment I said, “If this guy isn‟t rotated back to the
world when his time is up, he‟s going to be our nightmare.” With
thoughts of A1C Knox running through my mind, I tried to drive
faster in hopes of offsetting the humidity and dry my already sweat
soaked clothes. “With four years in, how come he is still just an
Airman First Class?” I asked. Capt. Sciarrino shrugged his shoulders
as he said, “That boy does everything he can to stay invisible.”
In the interest of doing efficient prosecutions and not tying up the
Military Courts, Maj. Kline of the Staff Judge Advocate‟s Office and
I had met several times to develop a format that would insure the
convictions for possession of drugs in a court-martial. Consequently, I
held a blank search warrant and a statement that just needed the
names filled in. Maj. Kline and I made a very efficient and
confidential team. I made drug busts that went on night after night
until mid-May and I had yet to testify in a court-martial.
I had learned the many idiosyncrasies of the base and its layout,
and at the same time, I developed a band of informants. Not the
soldier type, rather it was with the locals, the Thai Nationals, which
worked on the base. It was the maids and housekeepers that were
disrespected and looked upon as a lower class citizen by the soldiers
that employed them and humiliated them with the meager wages
while flaunting their comparative wealth.
The drug arrests were intermingled with the arrests for burglary
and the occasional robbery. For the most part, robberies were off base
and kept the Law Enforcement Town Patrol extremely busy. The few

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robberies on base were of opportunity and usually committed by a
soldier that took advantage of another soldier in an inebriated state.
However, the burglary rate was getting way out of hand. The Thai
Nationals understood that with the ending of the Vietnam War, the
soldiers that filled the positions of the Intelligence Support Teams at
Nakhon Phanom Airbase would disappear as quickly as the lack of
their need escalated. Thus, the crimes of burglary were of any
opportunity available.
During the course of investigations, be it with a military person or
a Thai National, there always appeared to be one name that kept
turning up but I could never tie him to anything substantial. It seemed
that everyone knew of A1C Knox. Finally, in the beginning of the
third week of May I had my answers. While making an arrest on a
dozen soldiers assigned to some of the most highly classified
positions on Nakhon Phanom Airbase, I had the opportunity to deal
with soldiers that even though stoned, were highly intelligent.
During the next forty-eight hours I negotiated, threatened, and
cajoled with the dozen men for answers as to how A1C Knox was
involved and why his name kept coming up in investigation after
investigation. It wasn‟t long before I developed a history on the
actions of A1C Knox. Investigation revealed that A1C Knox had
volunteered to come to Thailand. It wasn‟t important which base he
was on, but only the fact that he did end up in Thailand. In retrospect,
it was easy to see why he chose Thailand over Vietnam. Vietnam
catered more to the addict while Thailand, being part of Southeast
Asia‟s Golden Triangle, was among the largest Third World growers
of coca and opium poppies, which catered more to the transportation,
and distribution of its high quality product. The hashish, known the

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world over as Thai stick, with its thickly oozing oils was a cheap high
that was as plentiful and as readily available as a high quality rice
wine. A1C Knox was in the middle of it.
Through early June, I held dozens of interviews. Interviews with
the Thai Nationals on the streets of Nakhon Phanom City and the
Laotian Nationals that crossed the Mekong River from the small city
Muang Ta Kaek that travelled many miles to barter or sell their wares.
It seemed everyone had a story about the cop on NKP Airbase and his
ever growing stature within the community. Many equated him with
that famous bandit they heard about in America called Robin Hood.
The soldiers that would acknowledge his existence as a prevalent
figure of the streets and alleyways of the city would consider him the
Capo-d-tutti-capi or the Boss of Bosses. As one soldier sarcastically
put it, “Everyone knows about this cop except for his own damn
squadron.” Shaking his head in disgust he added, “You know there
ain‟t anyone that can touch him.”
It appeared as though an organized effort in Memphis had chosen
a young, up and comer from the streets and offered him and his
family a way out of the poverty and discrimination that the Southern
States held against his race. Quickly grabbing the chance, A1C Knox
enlisted in the Air Force and escaped from the sewers of the city.
However, everyone underestimates the drive and ambition that man
would be instilling in another man when he is faced with a life of
prejudice and hatred. A1C Knox built a network that bypassed those
that had encouraged him to come to Thailand by use of the local
Thais to build his own network of distribution of drugs.
“Capt. Sciarrino, this network A1C Knox built is almost
unbelievable,” I said as we sat in the open-air café in downtown

275
Nakhon Phanom City while I turned the pages of my notebook,
reviewing the interviews of the last eight days. “Are you sure about
all this? I mean, have you confirmed every fact? No error?” the
Captain questioned with a worried look on his face. “Captain,” I said
seriously, “When this man gets out of the Air Force and if he stays in
country, with his knowledge and connections, there will be no
stopping him until this base closes.” Adding sugar to my coffee and
lighting a cigarette, I watched the smoke from the cigarette disappear
in the slow moving hot breeze as I added quietly and carefully, trying
to judge the Captain‟s reaction, “He does have one weakness though.
His family.” Seeing a spark of hope in Capt. Sciarrino‟s eyes I
quickly added, “For all intense and purposes there is no United States
to him any longer. His life, thoughts, and actions have all become
Thai. His family and future are all within the Thai culture.” “Then
what have we got to worry about?” asked Capt. Sciarrino, with the
sound of hope in his voice. “Because we or any Americans that ever
step foot in this country will be his prey. Every instinct tells me to
take him out,” I added.
I spent a long night deep in thought with just my cigarettes and the
far off sounds of the jungle keeping me company. I knew sleep would
not be coming tonight as my mind escaped to the beaches of
California that was well described by the Beach Boy‟s songs that I
could hear from a soldier‟s radio playing in the distance. I let my
mind drift to that quiet beach in Capitola, California just outside of
Santa Cruz that held me enthralled on my last day in the United
States. God, I missed that day so much. I missed the freedom I felt as
I remembered the slow rolling waves complimented by the high cliffs,
the screaming seagulls and the barking of the seals on the distant

276
rocks. I cried as the early morning sun reached long purple and
yellow fingers through the sky giving light to the dawn of a new day.
The jangling of the telephone brought me back to reality. Wiping the
tears from my eyes, I answered the phone, “Sure Captain. I have an
appointment with the Staff Judge Advocate this morning. Would this
evening be okay?”
“Captain, you wanted to see me?” I asked as Capt. Sciarrino
opened the door to his billet. “Let‟s go for a walk,” he said without
further comment. Walking without a word for almost a mile Capt.
Sciarrino finally said, “We can‟t bust him and we can‟t take him out.”
“A1C Knox?” I asked. Not looking at me and staring at the circles he
was making in the dust with his boot he said, “Yeah, Knox.” Looking
out to the horizon at the setting sun, I tried to find the answer that
would be gentle on the Captain‟s conscious. There was none.
“Captain,” I started, “You know my history.” Holding up his hand
and still looking at the circles he continued to draw in the ground he
said simply, “Don‟t.” He looked at me without a word with a tear
emerging from the corner of his right eye as he said, “You have less
than twenty-four hours. I have orders for you sending you home
tomorrow night.” As I turned with a mixture of excitement of the
coming change and the dread of action that would have to be taken
with inadequate planning, Capt. Sciarrino called out to me, “Hey
Sarge, just thought you might want to know, intelligence says there is
a contract for a hit out on you.” Turning slightly I said back
sarcastically, “What‟s new? What the holy fuck is new?”
Twenty-four hours was not much time, and having little success at
another night‟s sleep, I awoke groggily and found that A1C Knox was
already on duty patrolling the perimeter of the base. Through the

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almost sleepless night, A1C Knox‟s misdirected honor and weakness
played through my mind. Time would be tight and there was no time
for error in judgement of character. I wondered how my old friend
The Barber would handle this.
I quickly dressed in my uniform, and adding a dollop of Vaseline
to my hair as I slicked it back to regulation, I looked at my watch
knowing that A1C Knox would be coming off duty in a couple hours.
The fatigue shirt fit tight and I realized that I had grown since I had
last donned this shirt. At least there was a bright spot in this day.
I watched from a distance as A1C Knox drove up in his jeep with
the relief from the perimeter towers. As the soldiers walked slowly to
the weapons barrel to clear their weapons prior to turning them into
the armory, I watched as A1C Knox sat in the jeep lost in thought. He
jerked his head up as I approached him saying, “Knox, we have to
talk.” There was a look of resignation and hatred in his eyes as he
stared at me and quietly said, “You‟ve been fuckin‟ with my life,
Sarge. Who the fuck is you man?” “I‟m just here to fix things Knox,”
I said. “You know there is a contract out on you?” A1C Knox
retorted. “Don‟t you?” he added. “Yeah,” I responded adding, “Found
out this morning. You know you are going to die in a military prison
don‟t you?” He said with a smirk, “You‟ll never live to see it.” I
responded with an equal smirk, “You know the Thai Government has
your wife and kids. You already know what they are going to do with
them.”
I realized that I had judged A1C Knox‟s weakness correctly, as I
finally saw him flinch. Intending to drive the spike in a little deeper I
added, “If I die or when you are out of the country on your way to
Leavenworth,” pausing to look at my watch, “Say in just about an

278
hour, your wife and kids will be executed.” “What do you want?” he
questioned quietly and maybe with a bit of acceptance as his hands
tightened on the steering wheel. Looking A1C Knox squarely in the
eyes I said simply, “You dead.” Looking at me sharply with no fear as
he asked, “What happens to my family then?” “Then it‟s all over.
They go home and collect your Military benefits,” I said quietly.
As A1C Knox walked to the clearing barrel at the Armory to clear
his weapon he looked back at me and winked. Pulling his .38 from its
holster, he placed it under his fatigue shirt. I watched as he took a
deep breath and the sound of the single shot reverberated across the
hot humid air. Dropping to the ground, amidst the cries of the other
Security Policemen waiting in line to turn in their weapons, there was
the distinct cry, “He‟s dead.”
I turned on my heel and walked from the Armory. Leaving the
jeep that I knew I no longer had any use for, I walked to Capt.
Sciarrino‟s office. Opening the door and dropping into the chair at the
foot of his desk, not bothering with a salute or a hello, I simply said,
“It‟s finished.” Not bothering to look up from the report he was
writing, refusing to make eye contact with me, he simply said, “There
is a C-130 on the flightline waiting for you.” Standing up, I looked
intently at the Captain, the only sound being that of the overhead
ceiling fan trying to stir the thick air and his pencil scratching at the
report in front of him. With the Captain‟s eyes never leaving the
report he was working on, I said gently, “You know Captain, I can‟t
leave with loose ends hanging.” The Captain‟s eyes slowly left his
report and I could feel the heat of his stare grinding into my soul as he
exploded, “Other than the Wing Commander, only the Chief and me
know about it.” His tone quieted to a whisper as he picked up the

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pencil, tapping it against the desk in a slow and rhythmic motion as
repeated, “Only the Chief and I.” With a faraway look in his eye he
continued, “I thought it was going to kill the Chief. He is a good man,
you know?”
I gave the Captain his long moment and felt sorry for him because
of the secret I gave him that he would have to live with. Shaking my
head and wondering if he had concern over my secrets I said, “I have
to go back to the billets and pack.” Waving his hand he said, “It‟s
already taken care of. I‟ve had your gear packed and it‟s already on
the way. Have my driver take you to the flightline.” “And my orders,
sir?” I questioned. Capt. Sciarrino handed me a thin envelope with a
seal on it saying, “You‟re going back to the United States. I don‟t
know where, but I would imagine it is in your orders. I was instructed
to let you know that you are not to break the seal until your flight has
lifted off and is out of Thai air space. Not before then.” I saluted the
Captain and turning on my heel, I said quietly to myself, “Oh Captain,
I do hope you and the Chief exercise your right to remain silent. I
would hate to have to come back….”

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 Chapter 25
As if in slow motion, we watched….

T
he C-130 climbed slowly with the loud now familiar
drone of the engines playing loudly in my ears. Looking
around, I realized I was the only passenger in the large
aircraft. The flight crew was invisible behind the door of the flight
deck. The only person I had seen on board was the lieutenant that
closed the passenger-loading door behind me. I could hear quiet
conversation coming from the flight deck as I knocked gently before
opening the aluminium-faced door. “What the fuck are you doing?
Get the hell out of my god-damn flight deck,” was the loud reprimand
coming from the small cabin for I assume, entering the restricted area.
Before I could close the door of the flight deck, I met the steel blue
eyes of an older man in his fifties, apparently civilian, with long
graying hair cascading over his shoulders mixing with his equally
gray beard, at the flight controls of the aircraft. I felt a bit of relief
though, remembering the stiff smile of the young 2nd Lieutenant that
was busy pouring over maps on his lap, as the door closed.

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 Walking slowly back to my seat, I felt the orders in my shirt
pocket. Taking a seat, I slowly broke the seal. “Son-of-a-bitch,” I
whistled silently to myself. “Those motherfuckers are sending me
back to Saigon.” The orders were giving me temporary duty
assignment to Saigon with directions as indicated by the Flight
Officer of this aircraft. There were neither names nor any indication
of an assignment to a Wing or Squadron.
Pacing back and forth through the large aircraft, I tired to
comprehend why I was returning to Vietnam. I knew that there was a
detachment of Marines still at the Embassy and a large number of
foreign and American civilians conducting business in Saigon and the
surrounding provinces. However, for all intense and purposes, the war
was over. Lighting a cigarette, I peered out of the small porthole
window of the door at the deep green vegetation of the jungle canopy
visible in patches through the thick monsoon rain rich clouds.
I must have dozed, for the bumping of the plane‟s landing gear
jarred me back to reality. Quickly fastening my seatbelt I prepared for
landing as I looked out of the small porthole window and saw the
familiar site of Tan Son Nhut Airport. As the C-130 taxied slowly to
the front of the airport, the young 2nd Lieutenant opened the door of
the flight deck. With nervousness causing my voice to become hoarse
I asked, “What the hell is going on? What the fuck are we doing
here?” Holding his finger to his lips to quiet me, he said softly, “I
have no idea. I am sure Mr. Striker will explain it shortly.”
The C-130‟s brakes squealed as we came to a gentle stop at the
entrance to the familiar terminal. I looked up as the door to the flight
deck opened and saw that the gray longhaired man must have
unfolded himself from his seat on the flight deck. Standing before me

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was a barrel chested man that stood well in excess of six feet and
carried about two hundred and fifty pounds on his well-muscled
frame. I unbuckled my seatbelt as he stood there looking at me with a
hint of amusement on his face with his hands on his hips. As I stood,
he reached out his hand to shake mine and said simply, “Striker,
Allen Striker… CIA Saigon.” Looking up at the tall man, I could see
gunmetal gray eyes that were devoid of all warmth. Remembering my
days of training, I knew that these eyes had written the book on death.
With a wave of his hand over his shoulder, Mr. Striker said
simply, “Let‟s go.” I followed him to the jeep with the lieutenant
trailing behind us carrying Mr. Striker‟s bag. As I climbed in and the
2nd Lieutenant placed the bag into the rear of the jeep, Mr. Striker
floored the accelerator leaving the young lieutenant standing there in
a cloud of dark black exhaust and a shower of dust and gravel.
Looking at the old gray haired man with his long hair whipping in the
wind I said quietly to myself, “Fucking asshole.”
We left the airport and drove through the countryside to a deserted
section of Bien Hoa with Mr. Striker not uttering a word. Content to
enjoy the sights of the countryside, I relished in the now familiar odor
of the jungle‟s vegetation. Pulling up in front of an old hotel with its
dirty windows and obvious neglect, I noticed old rusted signs lying to
one side of the building, now overgrown by weeds, which had at one
time welcomed the American soldiers in for night of riotous
entertainment.
Walking into the lobby of the hotel, I saw a young Amerasian
woman standing behind the lobby desk. She was in her late teens with
rich long flowing black hair and a smile that brought a sparkle to her
eyes. Walking up behind her Mr. Striker swatted her on the ass as he

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grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam Bourbon off the back counter as he
said, “This is Phuong.” Putting her hand to her mouth, she tittered
with embarrassment, turned, and stood on her toes to offer Mr. Striker
a kiss as she ground her pubic bone against his thigh saying playfully,
“Me want to love you long time baby.” Wrapping her warmly in his
arms, he said, acknowledging me, as he indicated the other men
filling the couches in the lobby, “I know you have a lot of questions.
We have been waiting for you. Tonight, over dinner, I‟ll fill you in on
what‟s going on.” Spreading his hands he said with a smile, “Do try
to enjoy yourselves. This is going to be the last night you have of
your own for a while.” With a smirk he added, “And don‟t leave the
hotel.”
Taking Phuong‟s hand, he disappeared behind a dingy curtain at
the rear of the counter. Turning to the other men that filled the
couches in the lobby I counted fourteen. All the men appeared to be
older than I was even if it was just by a few years. They all appeared
to be well muscled in their jeans and tee shirts with cold looks
accompanying their short military regulation haircut. Feeling out of
place with my long hair, I walked up to a hard looking, yet slender
man with long brown flowing hair and equally long flowing beard
that reminded me of the pictures I had seen of Jesus. Holding out my
hand to introduce myself, he gave me a look of arrogant disdain as he
turned his back on me. I turned to the sound of quiet snickers in the
room as one of the soldiers walked up to me holding out his hand
saying, “Welcome, I‟m Marcus. That guy is just an asshole,” he said
pointing at the longhaired man walking from the lobby letting the
screen door slam behind him. Watching the longhaired man light a
joint, as he grabbed a wicker chair and seated himself, Marcus

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continued, “He‟s one of the ones that got drafted and he still thinks
he‟s a fucking hippie. Keep an eye on him „cause he is one weird and
cold-blooded motherfucker. Son-of-a-bitch is always lighting up a
doobie and sharpening that long blade he‟s always carrying.” Seeing
my look of curiosity and being able to sense that I wanted to hear a
story he added, “Couple days ago, that crazy fucker was skinning cats
and monkeys on the porch. He said he was going to make himself a
blanket.” I stood there shaking my head in disgust, not at the act so
much, but as to the waste of the pelts. As I wondered of the
practicality of such a blanket I asked, “Do you have any idea why
they pulled us back into the „Nam?” Shrugging his shoulders he said,
“Haven‟t the faintest idea. I just know I was the first one to get here
about ten days ago and everyone has been coming in one at a time.
You‟re the last one we have been waiting for.”
Noticing that I was the only one in uniform, and feeling very
uncomfortable, I said to Marcus, “I kind of had to leave Nakhon
Phanom in a rush and they said my duffle bag was supposed to be on
the plane. Has anyone seen it?” One of the other soldiers chimed in
from his perch at the long bar where he was eating a bowl of rice,
“You can kiss your shit goodbye. Ain‟t none of us got our bags.”
There was a general grumbling that was interrupted by Mr. Striker‟s
loud voice, “Where the fuck is Connelly?” I turned as the screen door
slammed and Connelly, the long hair Jesus impression said, “Be cool
dude, I was out on the porch man.” “You guys go up and clean for
dinner,” said Mr. Striker as he added, “Mr. Young, you can take the
room at the end of the hall.” Looking up at the key tag board, he
grabbed the key to room 206 and threw it to me.

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 I followed the other men upstairs to my room, finding that it was
stuffy with the strong odor of old dirt, decay and rancid sex covered
by old incense. Thankfully, the towels were clean. Turning on the
shower, I found that the hot water was plentiful for the moment.
Quickly stripping from my uniform, I jumped in the shower and felt
refreshed at the feel of hot water and the bar of Ivory soap gliding
against my body. Towelling off, I looked in the mirror and for once
was thankful that shaving was not yet a part of my daily routine.
There was a knock at the door. Wrapping a towel around myself, I
opened it to find Phuong standing there in a very tiny miniskirt and a
shirt of wonderfully thin material that allowed her pert and erect
nipples to welcome me. Tearing my eyes from those nipples, I noticed
that she had black garments and a pair of boots in her outstretched
hands. With a smile on her face, she said softly and teasingly, “Allen
say you wear this uniform. You bring other downstairs and you throw
in fireplace.”
I quickly dressed and found that the uniform was a perfect yet
almost tight fit of a stretchy type fabric. It was a deep black with the
only insignia being that of an American Flag over the left pocket and
right shoulder, that was a deep purple black in color, just enough to
make it stand out from the material of the uniform itself. The boots fit
perfectly with a black canvas side, but heavy enough that I noticed the
steel plates at the soles. I was impressed with the holster at the side of
the boot that held a long thin razor- edged blade. Looking at myself in
the mirror, I was impressed with the sight. I actually looked like a
foreboding character. As I opened the door to my room, I saw the
other men that I had met in the lobby earlier primping and prancing as
though they were Bull Elk.

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 “Gentleman, have a seat,” said Mr. Striker. The couches and chairs
were filled with attentive faces, each giving their full attention to Mr.
Striker. Putting down his small glass of Jim Beam, he let his gaze fall
on each one of us individually. Quietly, and in carefully measured
words, he addressed us as though we were an individual, “Each of
you have been pulled here from assignments from every corner of the
world. Each of you has been hand chosen by the Pentagon and myself
for your abilities and special talents.” Looking at us as though to gage
our responses he continued, “You will not socialize with each other.
You will not become friends. There will be no first names and I don‟t
want to hear about the last piece of pussy you got back in the world.”
There was a quiet laugh in the room as Mr. Striker continued, “There
will be no discussion of prior assignments, nor will you discuss any of
the training you may or may not have.”
We were interrupted by an old mamma-san at the door announcing
that dinner was being served in the dining room. Mr. Striker nodded
his head and indicated that we should move to the dining room.
Pulling ourselves from our respective perches we all filed quietly into
the dining room, each of us sensing the ominous conversation
coming. As we filled our plates with roasted pig and large portions of
rice Mr. Striker continued, “This is a highly classified mission and
one of significant importance. Your security clearance was equally
crucial as your talents in you being chosen for this assignment.” One
of the soldiers held up his hand as though back in high school and
requesting the attention of the teacher, “Mr. Striker, what if we have a
problem with the rationale of this mission?” All eyes cast toward
Connelly, our Jesus image, as Mr. Striker replied, “You have a

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problem… you see me personally. There will be no second guessing
or discussion of this mission once it starts.”
The dining room was quiet, except for the sounds of forks clicking
on the plates, as we let Mr. Striker‟s words sink in as each of us ate
our fill. As the dishes were being cleared, mamma-san placed a small
bottle of Rice wine on the table as Mr. Striker continued, “This war,
as far as our government is concerned, is over. But for these people,”
he nodded indicating Phuong and the mamma-san, “it has never
ended.” There was a low murmur around the table as Mr. Striker held
up his hand for quiet. “By our estimates, it won‟t be long before those
gooks from Hanoi will be down here destroying the Saigon Regime.
We have a handful of Marines at the Embassy and a shit-load of
civilians that are too stupid to leave. When the time comes, there is
going to be a mass fucking exodus out of Saigon.” Connelly chimed
in sarcastically, “So why the fuck should we care?” Mr. Striker giving
him a hard look as he lifted the glass of bourbon to his lips said
simply, “We don‟t.” All of the men looked at each other with curious
glances as Mr. Striker continued, “What we do care about,” as he
locked eyes with each of us, “are the Americans that will be left here
after the exodus.” Again we all looked at each other with questions on
our faces as Mr. Striker said, “There will be no problem getting the
Marines or the civilians out of country. Our problem though, lies with
the large number of AWOL‟s that still reside in country, the ones that
have deserted and subsequently had no unit to ship out with when the
war ended.”
We all looked at each other with curious glances and an infinite
number of questions. My mind went back to Melvin Jackson and all
the French and American blooded Vietnamese children that made

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their homes with the large number of AWOL soldiers in the ghettos
of Bach Dang Street. Addressing Mr. Striker with apprehension in my
voice I asked, “Are we going to let these boys know that they have a
flight back home or are we going to arrest them and take them back to
the United States to stand trial?” One soldier, who appeared to be the
oldest of our group, had a deep scar on his face apparently from a
badly stitched knife wound, asked with a voice that seemed too soft
for his gruff appearance, “Sir, why don‟t we just leave them here?”
Looking over the sheaf of papers he held in his hands he said with a
bit of sarcasm, “These motherfuckers,” indicating and then waving
the sheaf in the air for emphasis, “Are deserters, traitors, thieves, and
useless god-damned misfits. For years, many of these soldiers, and I
use that term sarcastically, have undermined what we have been
doing here. They have stolen from us, they have put our soldiers in
jeopardy and a number of them have been traitors feeding those gooks
all kinds of intelligence.” Shaking his head in disgust he looked at
each one of us individually as he added, “I would love nothing more
than to leave their god-damn sorry asses here and let those little
yellow fuckers from the North take care of our problem.” One of the
soldiers whose muscles bulged under his skin tight uniform asked
sarcastically, “Why can‟t we do it then? I mean, probably better than
sitting in Leavenworth for twenty years.” Connelly jumped to his feet
as he yelled, “Hey man, they are still Americans. Maybe they had a
reason to leave this fucking war.” Giving Connelly a hard stare Mr.
Striker said, “Problem being, that many of those soldiers have held
some degree of security clearance or a security sensitive job and
know things that we would prefer North Vietnam not learn about. We
are going to round them all up and ship them back to the world where

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they will stand trial.” I leaned back in my chair as I remembered the
desperation and fear of Melvin Jackson, as I asked, “Isn‟t this going
to be rather difficult? I mean, those boys know the in and outs of
Saigon. They know how the underground works, and with what they
have done to help the locals, I really believe we are going to have a
hard time rooting them out.” Letting my mind wander back to the
streets of Saigon not that many month ago I asked, “How are we
going to tell them apart from the civilians?” Before Mr. Striker could
respond, one of the other soldiers in our group said with a laugh in his
voice, “Christ, those are going to be some running motherfuckers.”
Looking around the hotel and gauging its size, I added with curiosity,
“Where the hell are we going to stick them? I mean there has got to
be a few hundred of them.”
Mr. Striker walked around the room, looking at each one of us
individually and as he came up to me we locked eyes as he said, “You
are correct.” Tapping the sheaf of papers against his hand he said
quietly, “Except, there are close to twelve hundred AWOL‟s and
deserters in country.” We are going to grab as many as we can and we
will house them at the Long Binh Stockade until we verify their status
and until their flights are ready.” “How many months are we going to
be here?” The muscular soldier asked continuing, “We could spend a
fucking year chasing these boys through every damn village in
Southeast Asia.” Mr. Striker said simply, “We are out of here in
twenty-one days.” We all looked at each other with a bit of
incredulity as Connelly said sarcastically, “Fifteen of us to arrest over
twelve hundred soldiers in twenty-one days.” As Connelly directed
his question, “Are you fucking nuts?” to Mr. Striker, I somehow
knew at that moment that Connelly would never leave this country.

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 We all retired to the sitting room and lounged on the spacious
couches as we lit our cigarettes and pulled the tabs on our beers.
Connelly separated himself from the group by making himself busy
creating a chain from our pull-tabs as Mr. Striker said, “It is
imperative that we do not leave one of those soldiers behind.” As Mr.
Striker leaned against the wall, slowly shaking a cigarette out of his
pack of Marlboro‟s and looking at us, I asked the question I knew Mr.
Striker and everyone else was waiting for, “And what do we do if
they resist or try to run?” “Then you execute them where they stand,”
said Mr. Striker not blinking an eye. There was a loud raging scream
from Connelly as he leapt from the chair he was sitting in and threw
the chain of pull-tabs he had be making into Mr. Strikers face, “Fuck
you. Fuck you,” he repeated. Pacing back and forth in front of his
chair, then grabbing it and throwing it against the wall, Connelly
again repeated, “Fuck you, motherfucker.” Pointing his finger he
yelled, “Those are god-damn Americans. Fuck you. I ain‟t shooting
no god-damn American.” Mr. Striker came up to Connelly and
shoved him against the wall as he whispered loudly in his ear, “You
are going to do what the fuck I tell you to do, you little fucking
freak.” Connelly shoved back and yelled back, “You Commie fucking
asshole. You can kiss my god-damn mother fucking ass.”
The room was quiet except for the hard breathing of Connelly as
Mr. Striker grabbed him by the back of his head by his long hair as he
said, “Who the fuck do you think you are you god-damn Jesus
fucking freak? Who in the god-damn hell are you pushing? I‟ll show
you a god-damn Commie you little prick.” We all watched as Mr.
Striker pulled Connelly from the room by his hair. As the front door
slammed, we all ran to the window and watched with increasing

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tension as Mr. Striker pulled Connelly across the street and across
long abandoned rice paddies. We watched as they stood in the field in
heated argument. Connelly‟s arms flailed as he yelled at Mr. Striker.
We relaxed as Connelly‟s floundering stopped and they appeared to
be holding a rational discussion when Connelly struck Mr. Striker
with a hard blow to the chest and turned to walk away. Mr. Striker,
reaching out his hand, grabbed Connelly by the long hair pulling him
back to him and at the same time un-holstering his .45. We could see
Connelly‟s mouth move and watched as a sarcastic smile appeared on
his face. Mr. Striker pulled Connelly‟s hair tighter, wound it around
his fist, and brought their heads together as though to share a secret.
“Oh shit,” I said softly as I watched Connelly spit into Mr. Striker‟s
face adding, “He is one dead motherfucker.” As if in slow motion, we
watched as Mr. Striker used the back of the hand holding the .45 to
wipe away the spit as his other hand wound another loop tighter on
Connelly‟s long hair. With a matter of fact look, Mr. Striker placed
the .45 against Connelly‟s head and pulled the trigger. We watched as
the spray of blood and gore fill the air as the slight breeze brought
back a bit of the spray to the front of Mr. Striker‟s black shirt.
Leaving Connelly where he lay in the dirt, Mr. Striker walked
back into the room as we sat there in hushed silence and he addressed
us seriously, “This isn‟t a joke or a game.” Turning, he reached for
the bottle of Jim Beam and after pouring a healthy measure, he gulped
it down in a single swallow as he continued, “Like I said before, if
you have a problem or an issue, you come see me. I don‟t like this
mission much more than any of you do. But god-damn it, it‟s a job
that has to be done. We have a responsibility to history here.” I

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watched as Mr. Striker took out a white handkerchief from his pocket
and wiped the blood spatter from his face.
Looking to the sound at the top of the staircase, we could see
Phuong sitting at the top step. She was wearing a very small and thin
white frilly nothing as she sipped sensuously at a deep red wine from
a fine crystal goblet. She fingered the rim of the extra glass of wine
sitting on the step next to her with invitation written all over it.
Looking up, Mr. Striker‟s shoulder relaxed as he said, “You boys
have a good night. We‟ll finish this in the morning….”

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 Chapter 26
“You ever see my mamma.…

A
s I came down stairs in my new uniform, I glanced out
the window and saw a small cart and an aged
Vietnamese man next to the spot where Connelly had
fallen. Turning I saw Mr. Striker watching me carefully, apparently
waiting to judge my reaction. Jerking my thumb over my shoulder I
said, “He would have made great buzzard bait.” Watching the old
man struggle to pull Connelly‟s now stiff body into the back of the
cart I asked, “What‟s he going to do with him?” Looking at me with
intensity trying to gage my reaction he said simply, “Dump him in
Chi Hoa Cemetery. Maybe someone will find his body one day.” I
responded nonchalantly, “When‟s breakfast?”
Mr. Striker placed his hand on my shoulder guiding me into the
kitchen where Phuong and the old mamma-san were busy with large
skillets cooking up dozens of eggs and adding the cut up portions of
the half dozen chickens that lay on the counter with the handful of
herbs. “You‟re a good man Sgt. Young,” Mr. Striker said as he

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handed me a cold Pepsi and pulled the tab on his as he acknowledged
the other men that were filing into the kitchen to take a seat at the
expansive table. Mr. Striker said with surprised humor in his voice,
“We are all going to come awfully damn close and that mister crap is
making me feel old. From now on, it‟s Striker, no more mister. Lei
capisce?” Everyone looked up with nods of approval and the glint of
excitement lighting our eyes. We all ate heartily after the admonition
that it would be many hours until we ate again.
The rooster in the yard crowed loudly and the heat from the early
morning sun brought the oxygen rich vegetation to life as we trooped
outside. Striker lead us behind the hotel and down a narrow jungle
path, with the sounds of monkeys chattering in the trees, to a clearing
that yielded to a large well-padlocked steel building covered in
camouflaged netting with no windows. Turning the key in the
padlock, we helped push open the large heavy doors. Peering through
the darkness, I could see large dark shapes as Striker walked over to
flip the handle on a large electrical box. The large light bulbs
hummed as the white light revealed sixteen jeeps freshly painted in a
flat black paint. Sitting next to the jeeps, with their new tires showing
strength with an abundance of tread, were two large wooden boxes. I
whistled lowly as realization struck me that one of the jeeps would be
mine along with the assortment of armaments that I was sure were
contained in those boxes. As Striker walked to the center of the
cavernous building he said, “This is where you are going to bring
your equipment and prisoners at the end of every day.” Pointing to the
back of the building there were several large cages, not unlike those
of a zoo, he added, “And that‟s where your prisoners will be housed
until transport to Long Binh Stockade.” Walking over to one of the

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jeeps, Striker continued, “These jeeps are totally refurbished. If you
haven‟t noticed, there are holsters inside for the various weapons that
are in these cases,” kicking one of the cases lightly with the toe of his
boot. Reaching into the jeep, he opened a compartment concealed by
a door flush with the floor at the rear of the jeep and said, “You have
room for an extra .45 in here and three hundred rounds of
ammunition. If you need more than that you made a mistake and
you‟re fucked.” Looking at us seriously, he said without humor,
“Don‟t get fucked.”
We each approached our jeeps and I bent over to open the first
wooden crate next to my jeep. I marvelled at the new M-16 that had
an M-79 grenade launcher added to it with its own separate trigger
housing. Accompanying the weapon was an assortment of longer
than average banana clips filled with the appropriate 5.56 copper-
jacketed ammunition. Smiling, I hefted the featherweight in my hand,
and reaching down I out picked what I knew would be my favorite.
The squat version of the M-16 called the AR-15, which happily
shares the same widow makers as the M-16.
Picking up an assortment of blades, my mind went back to
Connelly. Had he lived, he would have revelled in the sight of the
long, thin, razor-sharp killing power. Filling the sheaves at my back
with three of the finest blades, I reached down for a longer than
average wire saw. Hefting it in my hand, I remembered the fine art of
garrotte as perfected by Spain in the early 1800‟s. Tucking it into an
easily accessible pocket at my hip, I reached down for the pair of
.45‟s with their gunmetal finish. Turning the killing power over in my
right hand and looking for the nonexistent serial numbers, I ejected

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the clip and found that it was filled with the short stubby messengers
of a hot lead filled death.
For the next forty-five minutes, I checked my gear and filled the
hidden compartment with as much .45 and M-16 ammunition as I
could along with the extra .45 caliber handgun, leaving just enough
room to slide in a thin short bladed knife. The holster‟s of the jeep
were filled with their appropriate weapons and I cringed at the sight
of the bag attached to the back of my seat holding fifteen of the hot
punching power rounds of M-79 High Explosive grenades. As I
clipped a couple of mini baseball grenades to my belt, Phuong and the
old mamma-san walked in carrying a large pot of coffee and an
assortment of well used mugs. “Okay you guys, front and center,”
yelled Striker as he leaned over and gave Phuong a welcoming kiss.
We all gathered around the large table and sat there in silence as
Striker waited for Phuong and the old mamma-san to depart.
I reached over and grabbed the pot of coffee quickly, drowning the
fly that was making an effort to escape my mug, as Striker started,
“We‟re going hunting today boys. For the first few hours, mainly for
a few of you that have not been in country for a while, we are going
to stick together. We can‟t afford to have you get lost.” As he handed
out detailed maps of Saigon and the surrounding provinces, one of the
soldiers asked, “And what of us that have never been in country
before?” Smiling, Striker said looking around the rest of the table as
he winked at the soldier, “We know what your specialty is. You‟re
going to stick with me.”
I think I swallowed the fly, for when I looked in my empty mug it
was no longer there. As I ran my tongue along the inside of my
mouth, trying to feel for fly parts, Striker‟s detailed instructions were

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starting to get boring. I watched a five-inch long centipede keep
falling to the floor as its own body weight would not allow it to crawl
up the wall while the other men yawned and stretched. The adrenaline
kick was instantaneous though as Striker finally ended his speech
with, “Saddle up boys. Follow me, we‟re going hunting.”
Turning the key in the ignition, I was rewarded with the hum of a
well-tuned engine. With the large room filling with the fumes from
the exhaust, Striker led the way out of the building. Following him, I
glanced back in the rear view mirror and saw a lone jeep sitting there
waiting for the ghost of Connelly.
We drove through the streets of Bien Hoa amidst the curious looks
of the local townspeople who quickly turned their heads at the sight
of our black uniforms. We continued on, making our way to a small
village that was supposed to be on the coast called Vung Tau. After
driving about 80 kilometers, through a myriad of roads and jungle
paths, we came upon the outskirts of a very large city and the old and
now defunct Vung Tau Army Airfield. As we drove slowly through a
decrepit village with dogs leashed down, apparently waiting for the
axe that would declare them that evening‟s meal, we saw a tall thin
man with long blond hair, cleanly shaven, and wearing the pajamas
that were so common of the villagers.
Striker held up his hand for us to stop as the young man stopped to
look at us. He stood there staring at us with curiosity as we sat in our
seats staring back. Not moving, he stood there giving us time to
examine his gaunt build, apparently from an inadequate diet. Yet the
thin well-muscled arms showed that he worked hard for the little food
he consumed. He continued to stand there waiting, maybe hoping that
we were just a dream or apparition, until Striker stepped from his

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jeep. Striker walked slowly toward the man as I exited my jeep to
provide backup. Marcus stepped from his jeep to cover the flank in
case the man tried to run while the rest of our group watched with
curious anticipation.
Holding out his hand, Mr. Striker said softly, “Hey buddy, I‟m
Striker. I am with the Department of the Air Force Special
Operations. You ready to come home?” There was a look of shock on
the young soldier‟s face as he responded in Vietnamese. Switching to
English as his country of origin crawled back into that seldom-used
memory he asked, “What are you guys doing here? I thought the war
was over.” Looking at us carefully, with our full weaponry not being
lost on his addled mind, he questioned, “The war is over, isn‟t it?”
“Yeah buddy,” said Striker, “We‟re here to give you a ride home.”
Looking at Striker with cautious apprehension he asked, “What? And
get executed for desertion? I think I‟ll stay here man.”
It was obvious Striker was losing his patience as he glanced at his
watch and said, still gently and softly, “That‟s not an option son, it‟s
time for you to come home.” The blond haired soldier gave Striker a
look of arrogant contempt at he extended his right hand showing us
all what a lovely middle finger he possessed as he said equally as soft
to Striker, “Fuck you, I ain‟t going anywhere.” Striker‟s lips curled
into a smile as he grabbed the middle finger, and in one quick motion
bent it backwards until there was the snap of broken bone. Not letting
go of the finger, I thought Striker would pull it out by the root as he
used that finger to guide the now screaming man to the back of one of
the jeeps. As one of the soldiers handcuffed the still screaming man
and chained him to the floor at the backseat of his jeep, Mr. Striker
said with an iniquitous grin, “If you keep that screaming up, I‟ll rip

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out your fucking larynx.” I was amazed at the quiet albeit small
whimpers that followed.
In the next several hours, we had made sixteen arrests. Each one of
the prisoners had sustained some sort of injury, and one young soldier
from Alabama had made the mistake of grabbing for one of the
holstered .45‟s and was rewarded by a slit across the inner thigh that
had severed his femoral artery, thus insuring a quick re-acquaintance
with his maker.
As we drove down the long empty road back to Bien Hoa, my
mind played the long day like a movie. I would have thought that any
one of these soldiers that we had arrested that day would have jumped
at the opportunity to take a ride on the freedom bird that they had
missed. Yet each one of them had resisted, and a few we had to chase
into the jungle. Each one had a story of why he should be the one we
let go to continue his existence in this now totally war ravished
country. I looked at the back of the nappy-headed soldier riding in the
back of the jeep in front of me. His head now lay at an uncomfortable
angle with the blood from his femoral artery now no longer riding the
wind to speck my windshield. I knew he would rather have lived than
to miss his ride home.
I was jerked back to reality as I felt the concussion of the
explosion and the blast furnace type heat crawl up the back of my
neck and push me forward. Quickly tightening my grip on the
steering wheel, I looked into the rearview mirror and saw that the jeep
behind me was nothing more that a ball of fire and a rain of metal. I
winced as a small piece of flesh landed on my leg. Quickly slamming
on my brakes, and seeing the other jeeps in front of me doing the
same, I ran back to the jeep, which was now nothing more than a fiery

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carcass of twisted metal. I saw Marcus‟s body lying at the side of the
road with everything from the waist down charred and ripped from
the rest of his body. As I stood there looking at him, I saw that his
eyes were open and they seemed to be pleading. I knew he couldn‟t
talk and express his wishes as the lower half of his face was burned to
the bone. His tongue wiggled like a snake in its enamel cage as I
pulled my .45 from its holster. Marcus‟s eyes closed as I pulled the
trigger sending that short stubby copper-jacketed angel to bring him
home.
“What the fuck happened?” yelled Striker as he strode up. “God-
damn it, I told you guys to be careful.” One of the guys in our group
looked at Striker with a bit of trepidation as he said, “I was in the jeep
behind him.” Turning to look at him, Striker waited patiently as the
soldier continued, “I saw the prisoner in the back seat wiggling and
then moving like a god-damn contortionist. He lifted up and it looked
like he brought his hands in front of him.” Shaking his head, Striker
said slowly, “God-damn it Mills, you should have shot the son-of-a-
bitch.” “I tried, but he was wrestling with Marcus over the seat and I
was afraid I would hit Marcus. Next thing I knew, that fucker looked
like he had one of Marcus‟s grenades and stuffed it in his bag of M-
79‟s.” “I thought we had all these guys chained to the floorboard?”
questioned Striker. Mills just shrugged his shoulders and lifted his
hands saying, “I don‟t know.”
We all turned as we heard the laughing. The skinny blond haired
soldier that was our first arrest continued his tittering and giggling as
we stood there staring at him. “It serves you assholes right. You
cocksuckers should have known better than to come here and fuck

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with us.” “Fuck you,” said Mills angrily adding, “I‟ll kill you myself
motherfucker.” The blond hair deserter broke out in loud laughter.
I could feel the heat of the rapid pulsing blood flowing through my
veins. I could hear the movement of the wings of the thousands of
misquotes that accompanied us on this mission. I could hear the
shuffling sounds of the six legs of the little ants working in unison as
they carried the thick grasses in their jaws. The sounds of the wings
of the lone buzzard watching us from his vantage point hundreds of
feet in the air were deafening. Far off in the distance, I could hear the
echoes of laughter of the taunts I received growing up because of my
size and stature. And even further away, fighting to reach me was the
sound of that blond long haired motherfucker laughing. All of a
sudden, there was no sound. The air was still and I could feel the
energy of the last golden rays of the sun as I reached into the jeep and
grabbed that blond hair, feeling it‟s dirt and grim from too many days
between washings, and pulled his head so that his eyes were level
with mine. “Now this is funny,” I said as I pulled the trigger of my
.45, causing his head to jerk back, leaving me with a handful of
bloody scalp.
One of the other prisoners in the back of another jeep yelled out,
“You fucking murderer. You just killed an American.” Turning, I
looked at him and saw that he was particularly ugly. His pocked
marked face and long stringy hair was nauseating. I walked up to him
asking, “You have an opinion to express?” The smell of the man
inspired by a diet of fish and rice without the benefit of deodorant
ruined the taste of nicotine I held from my last cigarette. As I stood
there lighting another, I found that the smell of my fresh lit cigarette
did little to abate the overwhelming stench emanating from this man.

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“Yeah, fuck you” he said. Still holding my .45, I set it against his
forehead and pulled the trigger. As the spray of blood touched the tip
of my tongue, I could swear I tasted the foul body odor of the man.
“Hell, at least it will help the buzzards find him faster,” I said grimly
to myself.
I stood there panting with the .45 at my side as Mills walked up to
the prisoner in the back of his jeep. His prisoner sat there with a smile
showing strong Mexican features. He looked ridiculous in his bright
orange garb and shaved head, which was an effort to mimic the
Buddhist Monks of the area. “Wipe that grin off you face,” said Mills
to his prisoner. Ignoring Mills, the Mexican prisoner‟s grin shown
brighter as the smile spread and the even white teeth were framed by
the dark skin.
I stood there watching them, wondering how in the hell that son-
of-a-bitch could have such white teeth in the middle of nowhere, as
Mills surprised me by removing those white teeth in one movement
with the butt of his AR-15. I smiled inwardly to myself at the
masterful dentistry Mills had shown. The young Mexican prisoner
struggled to speak with no teeth. Finally he found a voice to cry out,
while trying to maintain a sense of dignity utilizing what little
religious knowledge he had received from the monks of the area, “I‟m
a religious man. I am one with Buddha.” Mill‟s head jerked up at the
cry and looked levelly at the Mexican saying, “Well ain‟t that sweet
Pancho,” using the derogatory submissive term made famous by the
existence of the whinny sidekick of the Cisco Kid. “ My God is
Brahma and he trumps your Buddha.” As I stood there wondering
who the hell Brahma was, “Pancho” started to cough and choke,
apparently on the mouthful of teeth he swallowed. As the brown skin

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started to take on a rather blue tint, Mills crawled up into the back of
the jeep and implored, “Are you okay? Are you choking?” The head
bobbed up and down frantically as the blue skin was taking on a more
vibrant and richer color of blue with a hint of green as Mills cried out,
“Oh God… wait, sorry… oh great Buddha, let me help you.” Quickly
pulling a long thin blade, Mills held “Pancho” by an ear and quickly
slid the knife across his throat. The razor thin blade did open the
windpipe, as Mills continued the downward pressure to expose the
now spewing juggler vein and the thick heavy neck muscles. The
sharp blade continued unabated until the blade crossed through the
spine effectively giving Mills a brown bowling ball, with wide open
eyes, which he threw in the dirt at our feet. “Now that‟s what I call
some god-damn ethnic cleansing. I got me a deserter, a wetback and a
god-damn Buddhist Monk all in one kill.” I picked up the dog tag that
had fallen into the dust, free from the severed head, and read Munoz,
Louis D. E-3, U.S. Army.
I cringed at the thought of ethnic cleansing. Another of the
prisoners addressed Striker in a tranquil and poised tone, “You know
sir,” indicating the carnage of the last ten minutes with a wave of his
head, “When word of this get out to the press back home, this is going
to make Lt. Calley and his boys at the My Lei massacre look like a
bunch of pussies.” Striker looked around and then looked at each one
of us individually deep in thought. Shaking his head in knowing
resignation Striker said to us, “Fuck this shit. I ain‟t got time to play
these motherfucking games.” Looking at us with an intent look he
said firmly, “Unchain these assholes.” Pointing to the side of the road
that was mere steps from the dense vegetation of the jungle he added,
“Line them up by the side of the road over there.” We took the

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prisoners from the jeeps and brought them to the side of the road.
There was not a sound uttered, yet there was the instinctive jerking
and pulling of the body‟s realization of what was going to happen and
the mind‟s refusal to believe it. “If you‟re going to do what I think
you are going to do, I want you to know my name.” His black skin
glistened with sweat as the full moon tried to compete with the setting
sun to fill the sky with their lights as he whispered, “I‟m Chet Odem.
I‟m named after my daddy, you know.” “No,” I whispered back. “I
didn‟t know.” “You ever see my mamma, you tell her I love her and I
tried real hard to be a good soldier,” he said as his body trembled. I
knew it was from the sweat covering his body being cooled by the
evening air, rather than fear. “Yeah buddy, I promise,” I whispered
back. I jerked at the unexpected shot that rang across the sky, causing
a flock of birds to erupt into the air. I set my .45 against the base of
his head, just where the soft spot meets the neck, and pulled the
trigger.
“Gather up your shell casings and pull off those cuffs,” yelled
Striker, bringing us all back to reality. “Pull those bodies in the
jungle.” We each picked up our shell casing and pulled the bodies
into the jungle. Seeing the bright chrome of a dog tag chain, I ripped
the tags from the neck of the young soldier and dropped it into my
pocket as I watched Striker and another soldier load the two halves
and the various smaller pieces of Marcus in the back of Striker‟s jeep.
As I looked for the shell casings of the rounds I had expended on the
little blond fucker that started all this and that little ugly motherfucker
that just had to push my buttons, I watched as Mills and another
soldier pulled them and the Mexican out of sight in the dense jungle.

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 As I found the last of the shell casings, I saw Striker emerge from
the brush carrying a small blood covered leather pouch in his hand.
“What you got there?” I asked. Giving me look out of the corner of
his eyes he said, “Index fingers.” “Strange souvenirs,” I replied.
“Fingerprints for identification,” he replied quietly. “If they didn‟t
have dog tags, I took the finger.” I reached into my pocket and pulled
out the tag I had retrieved from the young soldier. Turning it over in
my hand I looked at the name, which for some reason I knew was
now burned indelibly into my mind forever, as I reached and dropped
them into Striker‟s outstretched hand.
The ride back to Bien Hoa was quiet and uneventful. I began to
realize how important Phuong was for the mental psyche of Striker as
I saw him relax at her sensual smile. Indicating the jeeps with a nod
of his head he said, “Put them away boys.” We watched as he
followed Phuong through the screen door grabbing her ass as it
slammed behind them…

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 Chapter 27
A fine day to die…

I
was up before dawn and pouring a cup of coffee as Striker
came down the stairs. Scratching his balls and then running
his hand over the two-day growth on his face, Striker poured
himself a cup of the steaming brew as he looked at me cautiously.
Retreating to the front porch where, with thankful silence, we
watched the early morning rays of the bright yellow sun fighting its
way through the early morning haze, stretching its fingers as if to
yawn in the early morning.
Breaking the silence, Striker asked cautiously yet matter-of-factly,
“What do you think?” Knowing that he was referring to the prior
day‟s events, I said, “If we only got sixteen yesterday,” using my
fingers to calculate, “working seven days a week, we should have this
all cleaned up in about two and a half months.” Striker nodded his
head in agreement, “That‟s about what I figured.”
As we watched the monkeys pick the insects off each other, each
of us lost in our own thoughts, we were joined by Mills and two other

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soldiers who were each carrying their own cup of steaming brew. As
the monkeys finished their morning ritual, the other nine soldiers,
who came down in various degrees of dress, joined us. We all sat
there quietly watching the sun erupt into its full brilliance.
“We can‟t leave these bodies lying in the jungles or in the cities,”
started Striker breaking the silence. “If you make a kill you take the
body over to the morgue at the Seventh-day Adventist Hospital in
Saigon. We‟ll stash them there until I can print them and confirm
identification. You have a problem, you see a big black Marine
Gunny Sergeant who runs the show over there.” “What if we have
positive I.D.?” asked one of the soldiers. “You still take the body over
there,” answered Striker. There were nods of acknowledgement all
the way around as Striker continued, “By my calculations, at the rate
we are moving, we are going to miss the twenty-one day deadline by
over seven weeks. Now I know you boys do not want to stay in
country any longer than I do, so we have to separate and step up the
pace. We will not take the time to give explanations to these guys.
They are war criminals and they shall be treated as such. They run
their mouth or try to resist in any form or to any degree, you execute
them where they stand.” Looking at us with a deep penetrating
serious look, he continued, “Our government has charged us with a
great responsibility and a mission that is one of highest national
security. It is a mission we will not be able to take credit for, rather it
is an honorable mission whose secrets will accompany us to our
graves.”
I leaned against the railing of the porch, lit a cigarette and started,
“That guy yesterday afternoon was talking about media exposure.”
Dragging hard on the cigarette, knowing that my next question was of

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a very sensitive nature that had to be asked, I questioned carefully, “If
this secret is going with us to the grave, do we really want to take the
chance of exposure when these boys start shooting off their mouths at
their court-martials?” Reflecting back to newspaper accounts I read
and the media bias I said, “Look how Lt. Calley‟s men fucked him.”
Everyone nodded his head in agreement as I continued, “If we take
any of them prisoner, could it happen that one day we may have to
come back and answer questions? Are we going to get fucked
somewhere?” Striker gave me a serious look and held up his hand to
stop me. Taking a long moment, he slowly and methodically lit a
cigarette. Giving himself time to carefully measure his words he said,
looking at each of the soldiers as they leaned forward giving him their
full attention, “I really would hate for a Senate inquiry to come up
and bite us in the ass somewhere down the road. Not to mention,
we‟ll lose another man if we have to stand guard over these
motherfuckers. We have a lot of work to do and we don‟t have time to
fuck around with those AWOL‟s and deserters. Each one of you is a
professional and you know what has to be done. I will leave it up to
your judgement and I know you will not disappoint me or leave Uncle
Sam open to embarrassment. You do the job your government sent
you here to do.” All of us locked eyes with each other, knowing what
the words that were not spoken meant. No words were needed to
acknowledge that we all agreed with Striker. The job would be done.
I was apprehensive about continuing my train of thought but knew
it must be expressed, “If we take the bodies over to the morgue, then
we have another person involved. And then, after we I.D. them, what
the hell are we going to do with all those damn bodies?” One of the
soldiers chimed in, “Don‟t they have a crematorium? I mean, can‟t we

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burn them?” Striker catching the idea said, “Too many civilians there
for that. We would have a hell of a time explaining the ash and the
odor. We need an earthmover and we need to dig a huge fucking
grave.” I looked at Striker with an even stare as I said, “Nope, don‟t
need an earthmover. I know where there is a natural grave. The
French used it as a weapons‟ graveyard when they evacuated back in
the mid 50‟s.” They all looked at me with curiosity as I continued,
“The locals say it is a bottomless tar pit. All we have to do is drop the
bodies in from some semblance of height and then nature and gravity
does the rest.” Pulling out a map, I did my best to point out the exact
location of the pit adding, “You‟ll know you are really close when
you see an old Soviet tank from the 20‟s.” “Well hell,” Striker said
adding, “That takes care of a huge problem.” Nodding at the soldier
who was the only one of us never to have been in country he added,
“You‟re going with me.” With a grin on his face Striker said, “Okay
boys, if you trust them with all of our lives you bring them back here
and we‟ll cage them and send them stateside. And if you don‟t,” he
said seriously adding in a measured tone, “You keep track of where
the bodies are and we‟ll give them a Christian burial. Now let‟s move
our asses. We got twenty more days until we are out of here for
good.”
I turned the key in my jeep, kicking the motor back into life. I
noticed that the blood had been cleaned off the windshield and the
fuel gage indicated I was refuelled and ready to go. I cruised into
downtown Saigon and noticed the dramatic change. There really
were, for all intense and purposes, no more Americans here. I noticed
that the Caravelle Hotel was still housing Americans, and at the same
time noticed that the living conditions of the hotel had declined

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dramatically from when I had last seen it. I cruised past my old
apartment and was mildly disappointed to see that it was now an
empty burned-out shell. I wondered what became of my old friend
Du~ng and his family. God damn, I hope he was smart enough to get
out of this city and move further into the hills.
I continued through the narrow streets and turned onto Bach Dang
Street. Remembering the red hair and freckled face of Melvin
Jackson, I pulled out my binoculars as I wondered if he had survived
the open pustules of disease that had covered his body. The street had
not changed from the ghetto that I remembered. The only was change
was that it had become more of a ghetto and the stench in the air had
become more rancid with the ever-growing piles of waste and
putrefaction. The children were still playing in those piles with the
rats still chasing at their heels. Scanning the building with its broken
windows covered with old parachute material, I was shocked to see
Melvin walking with two other men toward the old decrepit building.
Quickly exiting the jeep, and insuring that my .45 was loaded and that
I had two extra magazines, I ran through the garbage piles to intersect
them before they had a chance to enter the building. Thinking to
myself, “It would be a real bitch to have to carry the bodies down the
steps.”
“Hello Melvin,” I said with a grim smile as I stepped from the
corner of the building fingering the weapon in my holster. Quickly
jerking his head up at the sound of my voice, I could see that the
drugs had totally devastated his young body. I cringed as I looked at
the open and gaping sores, and I knew that by the sight of the raw
edges, the rats were feeding off him as he ventured into his drug-
induced stupors. Eyeing me carefully he said, “Do I know you man?”

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“No Melvin, no you don‟t,” I whispered as I pulled out my .45 and
removed the top of his head with the loud roar of a copper-jacketed
angel of mercy. “What the fuck? What the fuck you doing man?”
screamed one of the young soldiers that had been walking with
Melvin, while the other stood there in his drug induced stupor
showing little emotion. “Who the fuck is you?” he said eyeing my
black uniform, as he wiped the bits of Melvin‟s brain from his cheek.
“I‟m Sgt. Young, Department of Air Force Special Operations,” I said
quietly, thinking that I really don‟t have the time or inclination for
this conversation. Indicating the corpse of Melvin, which had started
the decomposition process long before this day, I snapped my fingers
to garner their attention as I said evenly, “Pick him up, and start
moving.” Looking at me with questions that would be unanswered, I
indicated the direction with the barrel of the still smoking .45 in my
hand.
As we walked around the back of the building, with the two
soldiers drug track laden arms straining under the slight weight of
Melvin‟s corpse, I looked for a place where the rats would not
consume the bodies before they were recovered. “Hey what you doin‟
down there?” came the wail from the tall gaunt black man sporting a
large graying afro, as he leaned over the balcony trying to get a better
view from his fifth story perch. Glancing up at him and ignoring him,
at the same time gauging his location for my return visit, we
continued around the corner where the two men dropped Melvin from
exhaustion. Looking at the pathetic men, I lit a cigarette and offered
one to each of them. As the one emaciated young soldier reached for
a cigarette with shaking hands illustrating his need for his next
injection of white death, I slid my knife deep into his lower abdomen.

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Pulling up hard to bring him to a quick and merciful death, my blade
was stopped on it travel upwards as it lodged in the soft bone at his
sternum. I tried to pull the knife free, but it was pulled from my hand
by the falling body. As I turned to face the other soldier, I watched
him turn as though to run, with a look of raw horror on his face.
Quickly pulling the garrotte from my side pocket, I reined him in with
a quick tug at the neck. Pulling tightly, feeling the wire dig deep into
the neck muscles, the soldier grabbed futilely at the wire trying to
wrest it free. I could feel the rapid tattoo of the heartbeat slow and
then stop as his hands dropped limply to his side. As I let his body fall
to the ground, I looked down at the pathetic sight with the thin line of
blood around his neck. I wondered if his family back home would
have been more disappointed to see what had become of this useless
peace of human flesh or if they would have wanted to deal with the
ramifications of what this drug rich country had made of their son.
“Fuck it,” I said to myself as I watched the rats and the dogs in the
distance waiting for me to make my retreat. “It really is a fine day to
die.”
I returned to the building to locate the old black man that yelled to
me from the fifth floor. Quietly going up the steps, trying to keep
from tripping over the garbage that covered the hallways and steps, I
found him whimpering like an old woman under an old military cot
with a mattress that was also shared by the ghetto‟s wildlife. “Who is
you man?” he cried with tears falling from his empty dark staring
eyes and bloody snot mucus erupting from his nose. “I‟ve come to
bring you home,” I said gently as I kneeled down beside him.
“Home?” he asked cautiously as I detected the small glimmer of life
returning to those eyes. “Yeah brother, your chariot has come to take

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you home.” With tears of gratitude and a growing smile on his face, I
knew he was remembering home. “Fried chicken and collard greens?”
he questioned me hopefully. “Yeah man, deep fried chicken and a
whole mess of collard greens,” I said as I watched him close his eyes
trying to bring in a long forgotten vision. “And your momma is
standing on the porch waiting for you to come home,” I whispered as
I placed the deliverer of the ticket to his chariot to the side of his head
and pulled gently on the trigger. I sat there for a long moment holding
him and looking at his face, peaceful in death. At that moment, I
knew there was a God, for the smile I saw on that beautiful black face
had grown even larger. I cried as I held him. “God damn it,” I said
quietly to myself as I saw my tear streaked face in the broken
bathroom mirror. “What a god damn motherfucking waste.”
I was angry as I went down the steps of the building. For the next
five or six hours I walked the streets of Saigon bringing death to each
soldier that dared to cross my path. With each pull of the trigger or
each silent slice from the blade of my knife, I learned to hate each one
of them for what their selfishness made me do. “It‟s a fine day to die,
you motherfuckers,” I kept repeating quietly to myself.
“Let it go Sarge,” was the sound coming from a million miles
away. Feeling a hand pressed on my shoulder, I again heard the voice
trying to invade my mind, “Come on Sarge you got to let it go.” As if
I was on a meteor crossing the distant galaxies of space and time,
quickly gathering speed, I felt myself come back to reality. “Come on
Trent, you have to let it go. Don‟t take it so personal.” I felt a slap at
the side of my face that sent me to the ground as I heard, “Come on
God damn it, snap out of it.” I lay there with eyes blinking as I
recognized the worried and worn face of Striker. “What the fuck?” I

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questioned as I looked down and saw that my hands and uniform
were covered with blood. “What the fuck happened?” I asked as I
looked incredulously at Striker. Taking the pouch that was hanging at
my side, looking inside and pulling out a handful of bloody digits and
fingering the number of dog tags I had hanging around my neck he
said gently and with pride, “Looks like you had a very busy and
successful day.”
In the coming weeks, our kill ratio went up exponentially with our
expertise and comfort level at taking life. While our small band made
the kills, Striker and the young soldier that had never been in country
gathered up the bodies we left strewn about at the end of our days‟
work and ferried them to the tar pit.
I continued my way further in country, understanding that word of
the day of carnage I had brought had cleared the streets of Saigon and
many of the soldiers we hunted tried to hide in the jungles and small
outlying villages. Striker could not have been more pleased. For in
reality, it made our job much easier, for the prying eyes of the
civilians and embassy workers still permeated the large city. One of
our group, that was an excellent sniper, was most pleased for he
acknowledged that any American of any race stood out amongst the
much smaller Southeast Asian.
Each evening, as the bright yellow orb of the sun quietly sank into
the horizon, only to have the night sky relit by a seemingly equally
bright moon, we would sit down at the large table for dinner. Phuong
and mamma-san filled our plates and we ate ravenously while at the
side table, that was just slightly less in size than our table, we would
stare at the many dog-tags or bloody pieces of flesh that were quickly
losing their distinguishable characteristic of a finger. There, Striker

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would spend the night cataloguing the names. I knew as the days
passed that we were coming close to our objective, for as each
morning dawned, I would watch the exhausted face of Striker as it
grew more grim and the large pouch of dog tags bulged further.
It had been a long day. Each day of the last twenty now seemed as
though it had been just one long day. The flow of blood and the
crying and pleading of many of those young men, in many cases
mixed with the quiet thanks of those that were ready to meet their
maker, in memory, all sounded as though it were but one voice. I
stood in the garage, looking at the jeep I had parked for the last time,
and noticed the still unused cages hidden in the shadows of the
cavernous room. I walked slowly to those cages, fingering the last of
the dog tags I collected, and opened one of the iron barred doors that
squeaked loudly on its hinges. I slammed the door shut behind me to
see what it would have felt like to be imprisoned, but as I slammed
the door closed, it bounced back open. Looking at the door, I noticed
there was no locking mechanism. I shook my head as I whispered
quietly to myself, “That motherfucker never intended to use these
cages. That motherfucker was lying to us the whole god damn time.”
Looking down at the fistful of dog tags I clenched tightly, I pulled
out one by its long chain. Still covered with blood, I spit on it and
wiped it on my shirt. Holding it up to the dim light I read the
indentations in the thin metal, Mesada, Samuel R., E-4, U.S. Army. I
walked slowly from the garage with the bright sun causing me to
squint in its glare and knelt by an old banana tree. Pushing the tag
slowly into the rich earth I whispered reverently, “rest in peace
Samuel… rest in peace.”

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 As I let the steam from the shower cleanse my body, I looked
down at the shower floor and watched the day‟s efforts disappear
down the drain in the form of a deep coppery crimson. It was at this
moment that I came to the realization that my father was so very
wrong. There really are no different colors of men; there are only
different types of men….

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 Epilogue

S
an Francisco Airport was bustling in the late afternoon as I
walked from the jet way looking for the baggage carousel.
With all the stories I had heard, I half expected to see
civilians lining up waiting their turn to spit on my uniform. However,
as I walked the long corridors, it was with a bit of trepidation that I
found I was wholly ignored.
I looked down at the orders I held in my hand sending me to
Vandenberg Air Force Base and wondered how they would make use
of my talents. Striker promised me, as I stepped onto the transport in
Saigon, that I had earned a well deserved rest. God knows I needed to
step off the world for a moment. The two days spent in Japan with the
scented soaps and long hot baths did little to clear the odor of
Vietnam from my psyche. As I looked down at my hands, I imagined
that I could still see the blood of all nine hundred and sixty three souls
writing their epitaph on my skin.
A young and very beautiful blond woman caught my eye. I could
see the life in her energy, yet her eyes held a dreamy dullness. It
seemed like a hundred years since I had seen a vision so beautiful
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with round eyes and soft flowing hair, and it drew me like a magnet.
Ordering a Vodka Collins, I asked looking around at the
surroundings, “So tell me pretty lady, what‟s a girl like you doing
working in a place like this?” Knowing that the line was well used
and unfortunately the best I could come up with, I was surprised as
she answered kindly and with a demur smile, “I try to work here as
many afternoons as I can.” As I watched, her practiced eyes scanning
the crowded airport with what looked like a quiet hopeful anticipation
she added, “I‟m waiting for my brother Danny to come home from
Vietnam.” Ignoring her comment and looking deep into her eyes, I
asked with hopeful anticipation, “So what‟s your name?” “Poet,” she
said returning my gaze. “Andrea Poet.” Deep in my mind, I felt a
stirring. Somewhere back there fighting to come forward was a
thought, a memory from long ago. My fingers twitched with the
memory of my fingers running across the name on the dog tags of the
young soldiers whose skull quietly accepted the .45 caliber round I
introduced to it. I tried to close my mind, tried to fight the words that
were clawing and fighting their way through. I screamed as those
words fought their way into my consciousness, “My sister said she
would be at San Francisco Airport waiting for me. Will you do me a
favor and tell Andrea I love her….”

TrentYoung@aol.com

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