Now this is no BS...

At Đà Nàng AB, there was a flight line post where Vietnamese workers passed through at day break. Very little vehicle traffic passed through the gate at night. A brand new-jeep-rookie -- me -- was posted at that gate (the most dangerous post in Vietnam). It was the blackest night on the planet -- dark-360 in every direction. Me standing in front of the poor leaky-roof-excuse for a guard shack, and the biggest brightest landing-light bulb on Earth (visible from space) just dangling about five feet overhead (that's over MY head) swaying in the wind. I walk toward a shadow for cover … 'it' followed me. Zig right--it zigged-right along with a bazillion June Bugs the size of footballs. Me — the perfect VC magnet (handsome, suave, skull full of mush). I've been setup. I'm... BAIT. Cannon fodder! They're divvying up my stuff in the tent right now!!! (Zig Left) I'm a Bullseye target. Ground Zero. Lapsed Insurance policy. Pucker-factor-Ten, or squared, or whatever Miss Barth in Algebra said about that stuff. Composing my mammas-boy Epitaph and mental letters to all the chicks that would remain virgins for life [why should I be the only one?] when they hear that I’m croaked (bravely) before dawn. -- Maybe I should carry that gun they gave me? Mom... I swear I been good and haven't bought none them nasty filthy vulgar books with pictures (they're free here :) you warned me about. [God, is it okay to lie to mom to keep her from having a heart attack?] No vest. No bunker. No Americans anywhere in sight.

Then sarge drives up with some how’s-it-going-airman coffee?

I said: Just Great Sarge. No sweat – got any sandwiches? (Is he gonna make me recite my Post Security junk) What time is it? (or the alphabet?) Is that my relief in the back seat? (Have I distracted him yet?)

(I thought: DON'T LET'EM KILLLLLLLLL ME... I'm a unconscious- projector -- whatever -- okay okay... I'm a sniveling cowwwwward... mamma mamma mamma!)

Lighten up, airman --you've only got five hours till dawn -- and quit that dang prancin' all around your dang post! There ain't no snipers around here.

Hale Mary... this the hour of my death... Whatever. (PS to mom's letter: give my steelie-marbles to Jerry and the Glassies to Larry) I think I'll sing... or should I whistle? (Zig Left).

And that, I swear is the gossip truth and exactly how it happened --scariest rookie Post ever: no sweat!

Don Poss