"Straphanger Chronicles "
Vietnam 1969-72

By Ron Taylor

This is a brief recollection of my experiences in Vietnam during the late sixties and early seventies. The stories are intended only to provide the reader with a sense of the experience.

 In early 1963 I volunteered for duty in Vietnam. As one of the top students in my class I was supposed to have my choice of assignments. However, my requested assignment was turned down because I had no operational experience – times were different then. Actually, I was told that only career-ist were being assigned to Vietnam.

 I didn’t have a death wish. I didn’t even know where Vietnam was exactly - outside the government the area was still being called French Indochina. I volunteered based on the advice of one of my instructors who had just returned from duty there. He said that the work was important, interesting and exciting. In fact he said it was the best tour that he had ever had. At that time, Vietnam was still a covered operation. Officially, there were no US military persons advising the Diem government on SIGINT matters; therefore, civilian clothes, private automobiles, a villa, and extra expense money was authorized – it was a very good life. Five years would pass before I visited Vietnam – a lot had changed by then.

 In late 1964, I was assigned the responsibility of providing identification support to field sites covering Vietnam. In this capacity, I toured our principal sites in Vietnam in 1969 and again in 1972. In 1969 I spent a week in Saigon, several days in Bien Hoa – just northeast of Saigon, a week in Phu Bai – just south of the DMZ, and several days in Pleiku – in the central highlands. The 1972 itinerary was similar but also included several sites in Thailand. I got to see a lot of both countries and met many very dedicated silent warriors. Despite the great intelligence we were providing the commanders in the field, by 1969 it was apparent to everyone in intelligence that we were losing the war. It was not the best of times and visitors were not always welcomed with open arms.

 My flight approached Saigon from the west, over the Delta. The first thing I noticed on final approach was how suddenly the cabin became absolutely silent - apprehension hangs heavy on the air. My first impressions of Vietnam were dominated by the green lushness of the Delta – it looked cool and inviting – almost mystical. However, from the moment the aircraft door was opened, it became readily apparent that HEAT is the principal element that will dominate all your activities.

 I was met at the airport and transported to MACV Headquarters. Our office was located there and everyone checked in through the office to receive a current security brief and to get outfitted with the appropriate military gear if your schedule included travel outside of Saigon. You were issued two sets of unmarked jungle fatigues, a pair of boots, and a poncho.

 I had been provided a very good, defensive, small-arms training course as a member of the fly-away team. We were told that we would be issued a handgun in Saigon for personal protection if we were going to travel "up country". However, when I asked about it in Saigon, the only thing they had to offer was an ancient rusted .38, with an eight-inch barrel. It seemed like it was two feet long compared to the brand new snub nose weapons we trained with back home. There were no holsters and, after much searching, they could only provide five very old corroded bullets.

 After I was outfitted, I was driven to my local quarters - the Park hotel in the heart of downtown Saigon. It was directly across the street from the Palace that served as the seat of the Government of South Vietnam. The hotel featured an open lobby that consisted of the ground floor structural columns with a reception desk in the center. Open outside stairways led to the room floors. From a personal safety standpoint, it was not the kind of place I would have picked to stay.

 There was an Officer’s club three blocks down the street that served meals and it was suggested that I take my meals there because it was barricaded and guarded. The only problem was that you had to walk directly past the Palace, down one of the busiest streets in Saigon, to get there. It was risky in the daytime and down right dangerous after dark. I couldn’t help wondering why the club seemed to be prepared for a sustained ground assault, while just up the street, they put me in a hotel that was open to anyone who cared to walk in off the street.

 That evening I cleaned the gun and bullets until they looked like they might work. I also discovered that the only way to transport the weapon was in my briefcase. This was not very effective, but the barrel was so long that any other solution proved impractical. That chore completed, I retired to the roof-top lounge for some relaxation. It seemed that every building in Saigon with a flat roof had a roof-top bar. They seemed to provide some serenity in an otherwise uncertain environment.

 The city had a festive, but uneasy, air about it. It was the beginning of Tet, the annual celebration of the lunar new year, and it was customary for families to gather together at their ancestral home during this period. There were lots of people roaming about. It was during Tet the previous year that teams of Viet Cong had infiltrated the city, shooting everything and everyone in sight. The actual damage to the city was not great, but the psychological impact on the populace had been devastating.

 More trouble was anticipated this year, and government forces were already on alert. It was about eleven that night when the first rocket streaked overhead in the general direction of the Palace. It seemed like a good idea to get off the roof – since we appeared to be between the launch site and the target – and the 122MM rocket was not known as a precision weapon.

 The room was very nice. There was a garden tub in one corner and a large double bed in the center. Floor to ceiling windows with wooded shutters dominated both outside walls. There was a three-foot ledge around the entire outside of the building. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I probably would not have slept at all that night.

 According to press reports the next morning, there were four more rocket attacks launched against the Palace during the night - three actually made the Palace grounds. After twenty-some hours on my feet, I didn’t hear anything after midnight.

 I was anxious to get out of Saigon and was up at dawn the next morning. I was going to Bien Hoa that morning and had to be at the Helipad by seven unless I wanted to take the twenty-plus mile overland trek by truck convoy. We weren’t supposed to fly helicopters because it was thought to be too dangerous, but it sure beat the alternative. The helicopter gunship ride to Bien Hoa was exciting but uneventful.

 The first day was spent in meeting with my sponsor, setting up the place I was assigned to stay, and receiving an operations orientation. I was scheduled for an intelligence brief late that afternoon. However, my sponsor informed me that the intelligence brief had been rescheduled because Colonel Patton wanted a briefing and he and his staff were on their way. He said that in all probability, the Bien Hoa airbase commander would also attend.

 The Colonel had taken a real interest in SIGINT and often dropped by on short notice for an instant intelligence brief. The Bien Hoa airbase commander had standing orders to inform him immediately whenever the Colonel entered the base.

 It was about fifteen minutes later that we noted a jeep approaching at great speed. It stopped very abruptly a few feet from us, the door flew open, and out popped the Colonel and three of his staff in complete combat gear. It was quite a sight. Until that very moment I did not realize that the Colonel that they had been talking about THE George Smith Patton, Jr. The physical resemblance and mannerism were unmistakable and a little unnerving. It was like he just stepped out of a WWII newsreel, pearl handles and all. He introduced the new member of his staff to us and my sponsor introduced me to him. He was very personable. About that time the Bien Hoa commander arrived.

 It was apparent from the analysis of enemy activity that something big was about to happen. The general insisted on giving his appraisal of the situation and plan for defending the airbase. His forces were already on alert and he expected an attack that night or the next. At the first sign of enemy movement, he would concentrate his forces on the northern edge of the airfield. The Thai’s would hold the left flank, the US garrison the center, and the ARVN (Vietnamese) the right flank. George’s tanks would be held in reserve, supporting the right flank.

 As soon as the enemy was engaged the ARVN would attack, forcing the enemy to concentrate his forces. The ARVN would then feign a retreat to draw the concentrated VC forces into range of the garrison troops and George’s tanks, where they would be annihilated. He asked George what he thought of the plan – even I realized that this was a mistake. This gave George the opening he needed and he took it.

 "Well, general," he began, "I see only three things wrong with your plan. First, as long as the PX is open, you can’t depend on the Thai’s to be on the line. Secondly, if the ARVN feign a withdrawal onto my positions they will be shot because I can’t tell one of those Zip f…er’s from another. Third, and most important, the airfield is not the target."

 He went on to explain that he and his staff had been reconnoitering the area, studying the charts, and reading the SIGINT reports. He had concluded that an attack would be launched in two or three days when the river and weather would be ideal. The enemy – probably in Regiment strength – would cross the river to the north under cover of darkness and proceed down Route One towards Bien Hoa. At first light they would attempt to take Long Binh and hold it for as long as possible. Long Binh was a lightly defended supply depot and administrative center on the other side of Route One. The mention of spoons and P-38’s (can openers) in operator chatter led him to conclude that the VC were more interested in supplies than attacking a well defended airbase.

 I left Bien Hoa for Phu Bai the next day. The following night the VC attacked Long Binh from the north. George and an alerted Long Binh garrison were waiting for them and chewed them up pretty bad. The survivors of one battalion sought refuge in a church near Bien Hoa. The church was quickly surrounded by ARVN troops. According to news accounts, the VC held out through the night before offering surrender. The ARVN, seeking revenge for past losses, slaughtered them all.

 When I arrived at Phu Bai in 1969 the SIGINT site was in good shape defensively. The 1^st Marine Division was between them and the DMZ, the site was surrounded by a rather extensive mine field, air support was close at hand, and there were many more lucrative targets in the area. I felt fairly safe there, despite the fact that I knew that several mainline NVA Divisions were located just across the DMZ.

 However, by the time I returned in 1972, the Marines and most other units had been withdrawn from the DMZ area and the SIGINT folks were pretty much on their own. They didn’t seem to be as concerned as they should have been. They seemed convinced that they could repel any attack mounted against them, even without artillery or close air support.

 Obviously, they did not fully appreciate that the same NVA mainline they were facing had defeated a very elite French force nearly two decades earlier, in a place called Dien Bien Phu. No matter how courageous they were, with three mainline NVA divisions in their north, two to their west, and the gulf to their east, they really didn’t have a prayer. Fortunately, although scattered rocket and mortar attacks were always a reality, the Phu Bai site was never subjected to direct ground attack by NVA forces.

 I got to see first-hand, however, the aftermath of an attack on a friendly unit adjacent to the Phu Bai site. Ironically, they had occupied an old French underground fort because it afforded protection from everything the enemy was capable of delivering – except a direct ground attack. They had already lost a dozen people to a ground attack in 1967. But that was much further to the north, and a ground attack near Phu Bai was the last thing they anticipated.

 The only part of the old fort that showed above ground were two very old gun parapets that also covered and protected the ventilation shafts. The site was surrounded by several rows of concertina wire. A small shack on the perimeter served as a gate house for vehicles during the day and as a guardhouse and strong point at night. Two or three guards manned the guardhouse day and night.

 As the story goes, the guards who were on watch were playing cards late one evening when, about 1:00 am, several grenades were tossed through the open windows, collapsing the building and killing them.

 The raiders then tossed explosives down the unguarded ventilation shafts and, in a flash, forty some silent warriors died – most of them in their sleep. I visited the site about a week after the incident, and it was very difficult to imagine that such total destruction took place, according to those first on the scene, in about five minutes. There were no survivors and the raiders had faded away into the night.

 The principle method of traveling between bases in 1969 was the round-robin military transport. The Air Force ran scheduled C-130 shuttle service between most of the major bases. In this case, scheduled did not necessarily mean at any given point in time, it meant the earliest time that they might depart.

 Even when they did show, there was no guarantee that you would actually get on, as they were often overbooked. If they weren’t overbooked, it usually meant that the plane had been configured for human cargo. Essentially, steel plates were placed in the body of the plane to form one big, and very hard, floor. The passengers were then sent in through the tailgate, ten to twelve abreast. Each row walked forward until they reached the previous – now seated – row and sat down. This continued until all the cargo was accommodated or they ran out of space.

 Phu Bai was the beginning of the daily circuit the morning I left for Pleiku. The plane was on time and there was room to spare. I was already thinking of being in Pleiku by noon.

 Our first stop was Danang. As the tailgate ramp lowered, it quickly became obvious that my anticipated schedule was about to slip. There, waiting on the tarmac, was an entire Vietnamese village – along with their personal belongings, their livestock, and any food they could carry. They were being "evacuated" to Saigon. In an instant, the plane became very crowded and very noisy. There were kids everywhere, most of them were crying. I don’t think many, if any, of them had been on an airplane before, and as the ramp came up and the cabin darkened, it was clear that they were scared. As we began to taxi, the cargomaster yelled out for everyone to "sit down". Spontaneously, everyone without a child grabbed a child or two and held onto them until we were in the air. Once we were airborne, most of them quickly fell asleep. Apparently they had been waiting for the plane all night.

 It was very noisy in the cargo bay of the C-130. I got close enough to the cargomaster, to quietly shout, "How long to Pleiku?" I was surprised when he looked at the flight schedule, but I was shocked when he shouted back "10-12 hours – if everything goes right." "But it’s only about a hundred and twenty miles south of here, how can it take 10 hours," I replied. He explained that they flew the perimeter of Vietnam, not across open country, so we had to go through Saigon and up the western side of the route to reach Pleiku. I asked him what the next stop was. He yelled, "An Khe." I yelled, "What’s there?" He yelled, "First Cav." Right then and there I decided I was going to get off at An Khe and hitch a ride to Pleiku. This was a very dumb thing to do.

 But there I was standing in front of an empty terminal building, in a place I only vaguely remembered seeing on a map. It did not seem very busy. I went inside. It was not obvious that anyone was there. I called out several times before an Air Force Sergeant wandered out of a backroom and asked me what I wanted. I said that I had to get to Pleiku. He said to come back at 5 o’clock and he would see if there was anything he could get me on. I asked him if there was any place nearby where I could get something to eat while I waited. He said, "I meant tomorrow morning, not tonight!" "Come back early tomorrow morning and we might have something going to Pleiku tomorrow – or the next day." I was expected in Pleiku the next day, as they were fond of saying in Vietnam, I was in deep s---.

I noticed a 1^st Cavalry Directory hanging by the phone on the wall, and panic being the mother of ingenuity, I recalled that the Army units were called "Radio Research" units. I also seemed to recall that there was an ARDF unit operating out of An Khe. I found something in the directory called "RR Co (Avn)." I called the number listed. A Sergeant answered. I briefly explained my dilemma. All he said was, "Stay where you are; I’ll be there in five minutes."

 I must admit that I was never so happy to see a Sergeant in my life. He pulled up in his jeep, said "Welcome to An Khe," threw my bag in the jeep, and motioned me to get in the vehicle. At this point I still did not know if these guys were silent warriors or not – not that there is anything wrong with that. On the way to the unit the Sergeant filled me in. They were a detachment from Pleiku flying U8’s out of An Khe in support of the 1^st Cavalry and 4^th Infantry Division. However, at that moment, the 1^st Cavalry was on operations in the A Shau valley and the base camp was nearly deserted.

 They had never had a visitor from the home office and were anxious to make me feel at home. They were throwing a party that night for the CO who was rotating home. They gave me a bunk in the club hut and promised to get me to Pleiku the next day.

As they started putting the party together, I realized just how skilled they had become at bartering. First we inventoried the supply CONEX which, on the inside, looked more like a seven-eleven with a green grocer. Yes, they had enough ingredients in-hand for a steak-out. The only things needed were steaks and beer. One phone call yielded forty-five T-bone steaks – delivered. Another, six cases of beer – delivered. It was truly amazing. It was also quite a party.

 There was scattered small arms fire throughout the night. Apparently, this was considered normal as no one even mentioned it the next morning. However, as my mentor and I were returning some of the items borrowed from the party, we came across an MP roadblock just inside the back gate. Three sappers had been shot just outside the wire the previous night while attempting to breach the gate. According to the MP, a larger group charged the gate, apparently believing that it had been breached, and were cut down by the guard force as they reached the wire. We could see them stacking an open duce and a half with dead bodies. It appeared that there were 30-40 bodies on the truck. With the Cav on operation, I could only imagine what havoc they might have caused had they gotten inside the perimeter.

 After lunch, they flew me to Pleiku aboard one of the mission aircraft. In the U8 there is a small space between the pilot and co-pilot. I’m not sure it is supposed to be an extra seat, but they crammed me in there somehow. The pilot could not resist putting me through some rapid descents and other aerial maneuvers "to get a closer look" at points of interest along the way; including some still smoldering battle sites. He made it a very interesting flight. When we landed at Pleiku, he taxied right up to the archway under the control tower, which was marked "VIPs", "General-Rank Officers only." The co-pilot jumped out and got my bag from a compartment underneath the aircraft and gave me a facetious salute. There was no way out. I walked very briskly through the VIP gate and out the front door. Thanks to some very kind souls from the An Khe detachment, I made it to Pleiku on schedule.

 When I arrived at Pleiku, it was already late afternoon. A driver was waiting to take me to the site on engineer hill. By the time I got a place to sleep and had dinner, it is too late to process into operations that day. My sponsor gave me a quick run down on the tactical situation and showed me where the nearest bunker was located. I asked how I would know when it was necessary to go to the bunker; meaning, was there a signal or something. He said not to worry, that if it was necessary to use the bunker no one would have to tell me. He suggested a movie.

 The theater was a bunch of logs, actually I think they were telephone poles, in a field next to the barracks. The screen was made of plywood panels, painted white. They were fastened between several telephone poles aligned in a slight arc so as to provided a cinerama effect. Of course, we had to wait for it to get dark. I don’t recall the movie, but I do remember it was a western and that the figures on the screen were huge.

 The airfield was down and to the right of the screen. I don’t know how far it was to the airfield, but as the landing lights came on, it was easy to distinguish the larger planes. Slightly down and to the lift of the screen was a quarry that was so white that it seemed to be naturally illuminated. We were about fifteen minutes into the film when I first heard that distinctive clicking of a field telephone from the perimeter bunker directly in front of us. Everyone else seemed lost in the movie.

 A few minutes later, the bunker in front of us – and under the screen – opened up with a few short bursts of .50 caliber. Suddenly, it seemed like there were a dozen phones ringing (clicking) away. No one seemed concerned.

 About half an hour later the first rocket streaked across the sky from somewhere near the quarry, went behind the screen, and emerged on the other side heading for the airfield. A moment later, a muted boom as it hit somewhere near the airfield. The movie went on and no one even seemed to be the least bit distracted.

 It was like there was a war going on behind the cowboys and horses, but no one seemed to notice. Another rocket, another muted boom. Another, but this time it hit something, a transport burst into flames. A C-123 I think. Emergency apparatus are responding. Planes and choppers begin to take off. It looked like someone stirred up a hornet’s nest. The movie goes on.

 The choppers begin firing rockets in the general direction of the incoming fire – from right to left on the screen – the movie goes on. The distinctive thud of mortar tubes firing comes in from the far left; apparently, the ARVN training unit on our left has joined the fray. In a few minutes the field goes silent and the movie ends.

 The audience begins wandering back to their hooches in small groups. Fading discussions of the movie, pro and con, can be heard. I have no idea what it was about. My hooch is a small wooden structure, surrounded by a three-foot wall of sandbags, close to the bunker. By the time I reached the walkway, a firefly has appeared over the field.

 Fireflies are small choppers with huge searchlights that fly very low and pan the ground looking for targets while two attack choppers circle above it waiting to pounce on anything that it sees, or anything that fires at it. This has got to be one of the worst jobs in Vietnam. I would like to hear the speech that convinces the pilot to turn on the light. I watched for awhile, but everything is quiet now. It is after midnight when I turn-in for the night.

 About three am, all hell breaks loose. Mortars are popping from both directions, .50 calibers are cross firing from both ends of the line and the airfield is bustling with activity. I put on my boots and grab my camera. I can’t see anything from my side of the building so I walk around to the other side of the building. A couple guys are standing there with their cameras watching all the activity and one of them says to me, "Hurry up, SPECTRE is coming on-line." I wasn’t sure what they meant but they sure seemed excited about it, and that was enough for me.

By now parachutes flares were dropping all over the field in front of us and ordinance was flying in both directions. Suddenly, a combat-ready dude came running down the walkway towards us. I was certain he was going to chew us out for being outside without our gear, or say something like "Get your heads down behind those sandbags, you fools", or "Get your asses to the bunker right now." But what he yelled was, "What’s your F-stop?" I was so surprised by the question, I couldn’t answer before he blurted out, "Last week I used 5.6 and got some terrific shots at 1/500." I started to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation before I realized that he was dead serious.

 About that time the gunship came on-line and it was spectacular. The C-130 seemed to be leaning on its side and literally pouring fire on the ground. The stream of bullets made visible by the tracer rounds actually arced - like a pot of flaming oil was being poured from the plane. The rotation of the mini-gun produced a very distinctive high-pitched grinding sound that I will always remember. The gunship remained on station for about twenty minutes, chewing up real estate in several salvos. I could not determine what effect the gunship had on the shooters but the field fell silent for the rest of the night and that was good enough for me.

 After three very long days in operations, my sponsor insisted on showing me the local town for some R&R before I left for Bangkok. I was still a little gun shy about "going to town" after being roughed up by an AP in Udorn. My sponsor there had taken me to a local bar to hear his favorite group. The MP's raided the bar; turned out it was off-limits, searching for deserters. Before I could convince the MP's that I was not a military person, I was thrown against a wall and held there with a nightstick while they checked my ID. I guess I looked like a deserter.

 There was a midnight curfew and before I agreed to go out I made my sponsor promise that he was coming back that night. He invited a friend to go along and we all grabbed a taxi outside the main gate. As I recall it took almost fifteen minutes to get to the village. The final mile or so was across a dike between two rice patties. The dike was about fifteen feet wide with a three-foot drop on both sides. The "road" ended at a turnabout just outside the village. To enter the village you had to walk or transfer to one of those rickshaws pulled by a bike. By the time my sponsor arranged for three pedicabs it was getting dark. He decided on the scenic route along the river. As we pulled onto the path along the river we could see five or six huge bonfires on the opposite shore. The drivers started yelling "Pathet Lao", "Pathet Lao" and, of course, we had to stop for a better look. And, of course, what else would one do while standing on the banks of the Mekong but what General Patton taught us at the Rhine - it just seemed right.

 In the next five minutes I discovered that the pedicab business was "vice" on wheels. I was offered a reefer, some reds, a nice girl, a nice boy, and something in a Jack Daniel's bottle that may have actually been Jack Daniel's. Politely declining each offer, we were soon on our way to the club with the hottest musical group of that day.

 There was nothing distinguishable about this particular club, very loud music, semi-cold beer and, of course, companions for everyone. They did serve a very good bowl of fried rice. We ate, drank, told lies, listened to the music, and just relaxed. Before we knew it, it was eleven-thirty. As we rushed to the turnabout we could see that there were only a few cabs remaining - and that they were going fast. By the time we actually reached the turnabout it was eleven-forty five and there was only one cab left. As we dashed for the last cab, a dark figure appeared out of nowhere and jumped into the front seat. Having no other choice, we quickly crammed into the backseat. The stranger said something to the cab driver in Thai and the cab took off as we were closing the doors. At eighty kilometers per hour, the dike seems four miles long, eight feet wide, and six feet high. Our headlight is the only light for miles. I could not stop thinking what a great target silhouette we must have been. It was a very long ride back to the base.

 When we reached the main gate it was already closed - too late. Our mysterious passenger was undeterred. He wrapped on the gate with his umbrella. To our surprise, the guard greeted him by name and opened the gate. This infamous linguist, who wished to remain anonymous to protect his very earned "bad boy" reputation, saved us considerable embarrassment that night and I will be forever grateful for his intervention on our behalf.

 Every once in a blue moon things just come together to produce unanticipated results. It's what athletes' call being "in the zone." My last helicopter trip to Saigon from Ben Hoa was such an occasion. First, it was very unusual for someone my age and station to rate a helicopter gunship to travel the 20 some miles between Ben Hoa and Saigon, but I knew someone who could arrange such things.

 I was twenty-five at the time, but looked younger. In the field I wore the unmarked jungle fatigues issued to me. The pocket flap said "DODSPECREP" for Department of Defense Special Representative. I carried a Government Issue leather brief case – mostly as a holster. In short, I looked like the kid of somebody very important playing war.

 As the chopper set down, I could see the door-gunner and the co-pilots scanning the area for this special mission person they were supposed to be picking up. I don’t think that I was their first guess. Nevertheless, they were very professional and very courteous. As we lifted-off, the co-pilot motioned to me to put on the extra intercom headset. He welcomed me aboard, told me the estimated arrival time in Saigon, and asked me if I would entertain a special request from the pilot. I said I would (what else could I have said). The pilot then came on and explained that there were two officers stranded at this firebase. He wanted to know if I could see my way clear to pick them up. It would only add five minutes to our current flight plan; otherwise, he would advise them to try again tomorrow. I agreed. He thanked me and we banked towards the sea.

 From the moment the colonels scrambled aboard the aircraft, I knew the pilot regretted picking them up. It was clear that they were new guys with an attitude. They fell all over each other taking pictures out the door, they insisted on chatting with the pilot, checking the map, writing down instrument settings, and just making a nuisance of themselves. Finally the pilot motioned for one of them to put on the headset. He told them that they would still be at the firebase if I hadn’t agreed to go out of my way to pick them up, and that they should both thank me personally for their rescue. This wasn’t about me; he just wanted to humiliate them as much as possible. They thanked me profusely. I could tell that they wanted to ask just who in the hell I was – but they didn’t dare.

 I heard the colonels ask the pilot about ground transportation. The pilot told them to walk across the field and to wait behind the control tower for the bus. My friend called ahead to make sure a car would be there to meet me. Although I did not know it at the time, the local driver was already engaged and the Deputy Chief of our station, a Navy Captain, offered to pick me up. He had an official function that afternoon and was in dress whites. He was driving the Chief's official car, a very large black Lincoln with flags on the front hood. He made quite an impression as he drove across the tarmac and pulled right up to the chopper. As I jumped out of the chopper, he ran up and grabbed my bag and welcomed me back to Saigon. He then walked to the car and opened the backdoor for me. It was like he was part of this grand plan. The crew was very impressed and the colonels just stood there with their mouths open. I could see it in their faces, "who was that masked man?'' "How did he rate a Navy Captain to carry his bag and drive his car?" I don't know why it felt so good to deceive those guys but I enjoyed it immensely - thanks to all who played a part in this small charade - it was fun.