I enlisted at 18, expecting MP school and a road to college. Instead I spent weeks on KP under a cruel cook, ended up in a knife standoff, and landed on riot-control duty at the Presidio in San Francisco, asking again and again to be sent to Vietnam. Read the rest
No one in my unit could get orders for Vietnam. Then, after an all-night guard shift, I clipped the battalion commander’s favorite car with a bus, refused to blame my First Sergeant, and had my orders within five days. Everyone called it punishment. I called it a reward. Read the rest
My first week in Vietnam: pallets of dead soldiers loaded onto planes at Long Binh, spiders in the latrine, a night of screams in Nha Trang, a C-130 with no door, and finally the road up to Pr’Line Mountain, my home for the next 19 months. Read the rest
July 1970. I arrived on Pr’Line Mountain exhausted and green, and met the 194th MP security platoon: hardened infantrymen, a few MPs, a gentle giant, and a man who warned me never to touch his rifle. And why the old hands kept new guys at arm’s length. Read the rest
Take a walk around our Central Highlands home near Dalat in 1970: the guard shack and helipad, Checkpoint Charlie, the hooches, the bunkers rigged with Claymores, and the men who shared the hill with us, Americans, ARVN, and Montagnards alike. Read the rest
Chris Sakell took me under his wing on Pr’Line Mountain. So, in her way, did Mai, his clever, mischievous Rhesus monkey. A story of friendship, pranks, and hard nights in Vietnam, and of what became of Chris after the war. Read the rest
In Dalat, our armored personnel carrier struck a man on a motorcycle during a turn, and he died. An angry crowd gathered, armed soldiers closed in, and on the road home we were ambushed. Decades later, I still ask whether I could have prevented it. Read the rest
