Finally, I reported for duty at a real job. My duty area was a compound that contained several World War Two style barracks that had been converted into offices and enclosed by eight foot high chain link fence with guards at the gate. It was fondly referred to as the 'Bird Cage.'  They assigned me to a research department located on the second story. I explained to my supervisor, "I’m on orders to Vietnam again, but my mom has to have open-heart surgery and asked me to see if the army wouldn’t let me stay near her until after her surgery. DA [Department of the Army] gave me a ninety-day deferral with temporary duty here so I could be near her. She’s in National Health Institute in Bethesda. They assigned me at first to a do-nothing MI detachment at Fort Meade, but I would have gone crazy there. I begged them for a job. That’s how I got here." He assigned me to a desk. The department supervisor was a Civil Servant and the other four guys in the department were all Air Force enlisted men. Everyone in our department was married — except for me. All our department did was answer questions. When a politician, general or admiral needed information, that no one else could provide, they formally requested that we answer their question.

For a week, I did not have any duties, but I visited mom every day. When she was due for surgery, I spent the day with her and stayed until her surgery was over and she was in ICU [Intensive Care Unit] and the doctors said that she was doing well. After her surgery, I visited her each day, but the doctors would only let me stay with her for fifteen minutes. She was full of tubes. She had tubes so they could feed her, tubes so they could give her medicine and one in her mouth for oxygen. She couldn’t talk and I knew that bothered her because mom dearly loved to talk. The last thing that she did as they had wheeled her off to the operating room was tell her doctor a joke.

Finally, I asked my supervisor, "When am I going to get something to do?" He said, "Well Val, I didn’t want to give you a job because I knew that you wanted to have free time to visit your mother?" "Please," I begged, "Give me something to do that will keep my mind occupied before I go nuts." That afternoon, he walked up to my desk and dropped a paper on it. "Here’s your assignment." When I scanned the contents of the paper, I found that it was a list of questions, all of them about the "Middle East." The inquiry consisted of about a dozen questions. Some of those questions were:

How many Russians are in the Middle East?

How many are military?

How many are civilians?

How long is their tour of duty there? and

Do they live on Soviet-controlled compounds?

The first thing that I had to do was get security clearances and passes [laminated badges] to the places where I would have to search for information. So I went around to several federal agencies and commissions and they issued me a security pass. The guys in our department had access to the vaults in DIA [Defense Intelligence Agency]; We had access to the main building at the CIA [Central Intelligence Agency]; We had a pass to the ASA [Army Security Agency] high-security compound at Fort Meade; and We had a couple of more security passes to places that I can’t even remember. We always kept all of those passes on a chain around our neck with the badges stuffed inside our shirt. Counting the security pass for my compound, I had at least seven badges around my neck all day Monday through Friday.

It wasn’t long before I discovered that everybody has their own definition of where the "Middle East" is and which countries are in the Middle East. Finally, I had to tell my supervisor, "Look I’m having a serious problem defining ‘Middle East’. Everybody has their own opinion where it is and what countries it includes. I need to know specifically what countries our consumer is interested in." "Hell Val," he responded, "I didn’t even think that might be a problem. I guess it is tho. Come to think of it, I’ve heard that general area referred to as the "Near East" also. Okay, I’ll get on the phone and ask them exactly which countries they want us to target and have them follow up with another written request that specifies those countries." He looked at me a little strange — maybe "quizzical" would be a better description of his look. Maybe I was the first one of his researchers that had asked our "customers" a question.

During the next few weeks, I learned more about what was inside huge vaults and World War Two barracks in the DC area than I ever wanted to know. Soon I discovered that there was no file that was categorized under any heading that had anything to do with the "number of soviets" stationed or living outside the USSR, much less in the Middle East. Perhaps that’s one reason that our little research department was needed. Hour after hour, I peeped through scopes at mile-after-mile of microfilm. It was mostly classified documents that had been put on microfilm for easier storage and reference.

To save time, I decided to go ahead and collect information on all the countries in that immediate area that anyone might consider as being in the "Middle East" while we awaited an answer to my question. That would put me one jump ahead and it would be a lot simpler to eliminate unwanted information that I had already collected than it would be to go back through all of the sources and add information that I had not collected. If I just had a more interesting question to answer, I think that I would have really enjoyed research work. While I was researching this subject, I ran across several interesting intelligence reports and old classified documents. Peeping through microfilm viewers got old fast and spending all day, day-after-day in a dark dusty basement or large squad bay in one of the old barracks that was full of files with no one to talk to now and then got a bit lonely after a while.

Mom seemed to be doing well so I started skipping a day now and then so I could have some kind of social life. My social life consisted mostly of stopping by the NCO Club enroute home and chit-chatting with the ladies that worked there. Actually, I pestered the hell out of them and I still love to pester women. In fact, that’s probably my favorite pastime. Its more fun than any theme park that I ever visited. Of course, I realize that I have to take a shot in return from time-to-time and I don’t mind. Like they say, "What goes around, comes around." When the women start on me, I pretend that it bothers me, it doesn’t, but that’s just part of the fun.

The hospital called me very early one morning and told me to come over right away. There was comparatively little traffic that early in the day so I made good time. When I arrived, the doctor told me that mom had a complication, but she was okay now and I could go see her. After I visited with Mom, I returned to Belvoir. To be totally honest, I never fully understood the nature of her complication.

I dated one of the waitresses at the NCO Club for quite a while. She was about ten years older than me and had a slight speech impediment, but she was a lot of fun. Before that, I dated a woman who lived with an army colonel and his wife a couple of times. She was his wife’s sister. He was the son of the officer at Bastogne during World War Two replied, "Nuts!" to the enemy’s demand that the 101st Airborne Division surrender. That was a very short relationship because that lady was an alcoholic and a flake.

During my entire time there, I only dated one other lady and that was only two or three times. That relationship first began when our supervisor called us all into his office one day. He explained to us that one of his men had a problem. He said, "His sister-in-law was visiting from a farm in South Dakota and she was still a virgin and wanted to be converted. My wife doesn’t know any single men that she can recommend. The only one that I know is you, Val. She’s eighteen years old and six foot one inch-tall, but to be that tall, she has a very nice build."

Well, I was taller than the young lady, but I was almost twice her age. All eyes turned on me and I declined. The brother-in-law begged me to date her, all of the other guys, including the supervisor hounded me to date her, and I finally agreed to have supper at his apartment just to meet her. My only reason for agreeing to even have supper with them was just to appease everyone and get them off of my back. It was a nice meal and I found the young lady to be very attractive. She was definitely physically attractive, but she also had a nice personality. To make a long story short, I asked her out on a date and helped solve her problem.

The morning after our first date, our supervisor gathered everyone in his office so they could all interrogate me as to what happened. I refused to share any intimate details with them. They tried and tried to find out what happened on our date without success. This frustrated them to no end. I thought, "It was none of their damn business what happened between us." Only the girl, Mama Warren, and I ever knew any details about our relationship. If I had known at the time that Mama Warren was going to tell everyone in his office, he wouldn’t have known either because I would never have brought her to our apartment.

In October the hospital called me early one morning and told me that I should come right over. "Mom is having complications again," I thought. This time I wasn’t worried because I thought that it would be like last time and when I got there she would be alright again. Boy was I wrong. This time I walked right into her ICU room before anyone noticed me. Mom’s bed was empty. At first, I thought that she had just been moved out of ICU to the recovery ward. The nurse that called me hadn’t said anything was seriously wrong, just that I should come right over. Then I looked in the recovery rooms. Mom wasn’t there either. The pretty nurse with the big blue eyes spotted me wandering around in the hall and stuck her head in a door down the hall near the nurses’s station. Another nurse came out of that room and motioned for me to come there. She told me, "Wait in here Mister Valentine. The doctor needs to see you." By this time, I knew what had happened, but it was such a surprise, I was a little numb. It just wouldn’t sink in. It seemed like an eternity before the door finally opened and the doctor entered. He told me, "Mister Valentine, at about Four O’Clock this morning, your mother suffered complications again. We tried everything that we could to save her, but we couldn’t. We lost her. She’s gone." I asked, "What the hell happened Doc? I thought she was doing good. I thought she was going to make it." "She developed a blood clot and it got into her heart.," he replied, " There was nothing we could do. I’m sorry." Blue eyes handed me a paper bag. She said, "Your mother’s things are in here. She had already made arrangements in case she died. Her body will be shipped to the funeral home in Knoxville. I’m so sorry."

It still hadn’t sunk in yet because. On my way out of the hospital, I stopped in the vending machine room and got a cup of coffee. After I sat there sipping on that coffee and staring at that paper bag for several minutes, I still couldn’t quite grasp what had just happened so I walked back out to my car. The street that I had parked on had strange parking laws. When I had parked there on the way to see mom, you were allowed to park on that side of the street, but not the opposite side. When I came out of the hospital, I had a parking ticket on my windshield because then parking was only allowed on the opposite side of the street. "Some damn New York Yankee must have dreamed up that parking law," was my first thought. I stopped by my headquarters and told them what had happened. The Detachment First Sergeant told me, "Pack up and go home, Val. I will sign you out and mail your orders to you at your sister’s home address." So I headed for my office and told my supervisor what happened, gave him the draft copy of the report that I had been working on, and bid everyone farewell. I still hadn’t finished answering all of those damn questions.

Enroute home, I stopped off at the NCO Club to say goodbye to the girls that I had pestered so much. After I had a couple of drinks, the numbness left me and that’s when it finally sunk in that my mom was gone. The tears began pouring down both cheeks. The waitress that I was dating had taken a break and was sitting with me and she started crying also. The hostess passed by, saw us crying and inquired what was wrong. When the lady sitting with me told her, she joined us and we all three sat there crying. Mushy stuff must be very contagious. Before long, two waitresses, the hostess, and the hat-check lady were sitting there with me, all crying their pretty little eyes out. Who was running the club during their absence, I don’t have the foggiest notion. Sometime during all of this, I managed to telephone other family members and notify them that mom’s body was heading home. After five or six hours and about a fifth of bourbon, I called Mama Warren and asked him to come get me because by then I definitely was too drunk to drive.

The next morning, I packed my gear into my car and headed for home. That long drive gave me too much time to think. Feelings of guilt came over me because I hadn’t spent more time with my mother when I had been on leave and while she was in the hospital. To tell the truth, I felt lower than whale shit. Memories of my mother dominated my mind for the entire trip.

My mother had not been like most mothers. My aunts, neighbors, and grandmothers had raised me more than my mother had. After mom married Harry, sometimes I would stay with them and sometimes I would stay with a relative. Usually, I stayed with mom and Harry during the school term. From the time I was about eight years old until I was about fifteen years old, whenever I stayed with her and Harry I only saw mom at breakfast and again when she and Harry came home late at night and that was about six days a week. In between, I fended for myself.

When mom and Harry came home, which was usually after the taverns closed, they were usually plastered. Sometimes they would argue and once when I was about ten years old and mom was about six or seven months pregnant with my sister Sue, Harry beat her. He knocked her down and then kicked her in the stomach. When I pulled him off, he lost his balance and fell. When he jumped up from the floor, he grabbed his pump shotgun and I ran out the door in my underwear with him right behind me. He tried and tried to jack a shell into the chamber of that shotgun, but it was empty and I out ran him. For the rest of the night, I hid in the brush near the trailer and was thankful that it was summer instead of winter. That was the day that I began hating Harry Lett. Life with Harry was pure hell even before this incident because of his heavy drinking and I had never been able to understand why my mother stayed with him all those years. Nor had I ever forgiven her for that. At least, I had never told her that I had.

Just before they came to take her away for surgery, I remember what she had told me. She said, "Don, your father was the only man that I have ever loved. You did a good job of raising yourself." When I remembered that, I became so upset, I had to stop two or three times to clear my mind and my eyes so I could stay on the road. That was the longest drive of my life. The family received friends at the funeral home that night and we buried mom the next day.

Can’t tell very much about the thirty day furlough that followed because I pretty much spent it plastered. But then, I guess I just did what a lot of guys do when they’re on furlough before they ship out to a war, especially if its their fourth trip: I got drunk and met a woman. Actually, I met two women.

One was, Susan, a very nice attractive young lady who was in her mid-twenties and worked at St Mary’s Hospital where I had met her when I first returned from Fort Holabird and visited mom. The other was Barbara who was about my age or maybe a couple of years older. Barbara I met while she was waiting tables at a Knoxville nightclub a few miles outside town on the old Asheville Highway.

The instant that I met Susan, I knew that she would do to ride the river with. Don’t ask me how I knew it, because I don’t know, I just did. But I was enroute to that stupid war for the fourth time. Should I return from that hell hole in one piece, I still had at least four more years of army life before I could retire and settle down. Susan meant a lot to me and I think that she liked me also, but I also think that I scared her a little. At any rate, I did a lot of thinking about Susan. Now Barbara, she was a wild party girl. She was a divorcee who had been married several times.

While I was on this furlough Aunt Gona’s husband, Bernard Edgmon, died so I had another funeral to attend. Finally, the day came for me to head for Travis Air Force Base, California to catch my flight for Vietnam. The night before I left, while sitting at a table in the Indian Rock Cafe on Rutledge Pike, I wrote out my will. As I recall, it was a three-beer job. Then I spent the night with my half-sister, Sue Lett Staley, and her husband Roger. They had taken in my half-brother Joe Lett, who was only about five or six years old at the time. My other half-sister, Sandy Lett was only fifteen years old, but she had already eloped and married. Her husband was a juvenile criminal who was awaiting sentencing for his latest screw-up. I can’t even remember his name. I remember thinking, "She really has something to look forward to." I left my car with Sue with the understanding that, if I didn’t return, she could have that big-ass Ford free and clear, if she wanted it.

As soon as I checked in at Travis, I headed for the nearby NCO Club with another sergeant where we chowed-down and had a few cold beers. Almost immediately, one of the bartenders and I struck up a conversation. About an hour later, she said, "Honey, I get off in thirty minutes. Why don’t you come home with me?"

"Sorry gal, I have to catch a flight in a couple of hours," I replied. She came back with, "Hell, I can have you back by then, Honey."

"I better take a rain check. We might get carried away and I would end up in the stockade. This here now army frowns on sergeants that miss a flight, especially if the plane happens to be headed towards Vietnam. Sorry, gal," I replied.

So two hours later, I — and a couple of hundred other GIs — loaded aboard a huge commercial airliner and headed west across the Pacific Ocean towards the big Disneyland where the "Mickey Mouse" kills. The term "Mickey Mouse" was a general GI slang at that time. It was used in a wide variety of meanings. It meant "little, nit-picking things" and it was used in lieu of "excessive, unwarranted discipline or restrictions" which was also referred to as "chicken-shit." Chicken shit seemed to be the preferred definition at that time.

Heretofore, I had always flown to war on a military cargo airplane, the same kind that we used for our parachute operations. Now they were flying guys to and from Vietnam in a jumbo jetliner. When jet airline transportation was combined with individual replacement system, it created a situation that seemed "unreal," which helped give rise to the term "Disneyland" for Vietnam.

This system gave the rookie soldier headed into war no time to change mentally and emotionally from peacetime soldiering to war soldiering. It was just as bad for those headed home. Because of the difference in time between California and Vietnam, when the guys stepped off that airliner onto California soil, they were home before they left Vietnam. That too was a weird feeling. The actual time that had lapsed from take-off to landing was about 17 hours as I recall. Many a GI found themselves in the stateside environment only 24 hours after being in a fire fight in Vietnam where they had maybe just killed someone or lost a another buddy. That kind of situation leaves that GI with absolutely no time to adapt to his new environment [civilian life or stateside duty]. When that was combined with a population that not only did not appreciate the sacrifices the soldiers had made, but were hostile towards them, even violent towards them, the ex-GI had one hell of a time being re-assimilated into the civilian population.

The ladies that worked the airlines that took GIs to and from Vietnam really went out of their way to make the GIs feel at home and they did a great job. They were really first class. If it was on that damn plane, they would get it for the GI. All the GI had to do was ask and sometimes they didn't have to ask.

That was my first trip to war via the individual replacement system. Heretofore, I had always went to war as a member of a "team." The team method is far superior and much less expensive in human life than the individual replacement system. To put it bluntly, the individual replacement system, sucks. The individual replacement system is simple from a command point of view, but it is inefficient and wastes money training soldiers, especially infantry soldiers, because those replacements are not accepted as a member of that unit. Even if they survive several combat operations and perform adequately under fire, their peers still treat them different from the original members of the unit. One could only imagine what was going on in the minds of the young soldiers as they waited to be individually processed through that stupid system.

525th Military Intelligence Group [Vietnam]

As soon as we landed in Saigon, we were trucked to Long Binh where we signed into the repple depple. We spent the next several days carrying our records while we walked around in circles. During this time, I kept wondering what all of those kids were thinking while they waited for their duty assignment in Vietnam.

They finally assigned me to the 525^th Military Intelligence Group and delivered me to its headquarters in Saigon. At least I believe it was the "525^th." I may be wrong. I was given a room in what originally was a French hotel that looked just like the one in the movie, Apocalypse Now. Here I spent another two or three days waiting for the 525^th to assign me a job. Finally, the personnel officer, called me to his office.

"Sergeant Valentine, we need a replacement for the NCOIC of our Technical Section. The job’s yours, if you want it," he said. "How long do I have to decide, Sir," I asked. "How long do you want," he replied. "How about until 0800 hours tomorrow, Sir," I responded. "No sweat. See you tomorrow, Sarge," he answered.

Several times that night, I went over his offer in my mind. For a while I would be for taking the job and then I would be against it.

I thought, "That section is right here in Saigon, across the street from the 525^th Personnel Office. That’s about as safe a job as you can find in this hell hole, Val. Maybe you better take it. Why the hell did I even hesitate? I don’t know anything about the ‘specifics’ that go on in a technical shop, but I could sure learn it in a year and I’ll betcha the CIA would love to get their hands on an experienced intelligence ‘technician,’ that is trained and experienced as an Agent Handler and also Special Forces-qualified and experienced.

"All of those young rookie troops will be out in the field with their units by now. Some of the ones going to infantry units have probably already been wounded, maybe even killed. I have more training and experience in my little finger than any of those kids have in their whole damn body. If I take this piece-of-cake duty assignment, I wonder how I will feel about it a few years down the road?"

 "That’s assuming you survive you dumbass. Take it for God’s sake!"

"Aw shit, I wish my damn conscience would take a break at times like this. Of all of the troops assigned to this outfit, I am probably the only one that is qualified to be out wandering around in these boonies with a loaded rifle. What the hell, I can’t live forever. Besides, the damn army always piles the chicken shit the deepest around the flag pole anyway and I hate chickenshit. Out in the field I just might be the difference between one of those young kids living or dying. I guess I better pass on that soft job."

 "Damn, I wonder how much Big Brother pays their technicians?

"Aw to hell with it, with my luck either the CIA wouldn’t even talk to me or if they did hire me, they would stick me in one of those damn vaults in DC and forget about me. I better try for a field team, one that’s as far from Saigon and the army chicken shit as I can get."

The next morning I reported back to the captain, "I have decided to turn down the job in the Technical Shop, sir. I have plenty of experience as a soldier, but none as an Agent Handler because I’m fresh out of Fort Holabird, sir. I would like to be assigned to a field team so I can get experience as an Agent Handler. I would like the team that is as far from Saigon as I can get." Once again, I got exactly what I asked for — of course when you make dumbass requests, you usually do get what you asked for. They shipped me out the next day to Nha Trang where their 2d Battalion was located. Actually, it was the 572d MI Battalion and its headquarters was in downtown Nha Trang, only about two blocks off the beach and there I remained for two or three days. Actually, I was there just long enough for them to give me a slightly altered identity. They promoted me "on paper" to a Chief Warrant Officer, CW2 and gave me an ID card to support it. The rank was primarily to reduce possible interference from any chicken shits who out-ranked me. They gave me my cover story, "You’re collecting information on the native village life for computer analysis back in Saigon and the US." "That’ll fly like a damn rock," was my first thought.

About two days later I flew out of there for their detachment at Ban Me Thout in the Central Highlands. That detachment lived in a house that was directly across the street from a very large building that was occupied by the local CIA field operative. They had one very old one-eyed Chinese who was armed with an M-2 Carbine and two extra magazines of ammunition that guarded their house. About two days later, they flew me by chopper out to my final destination a collection team located at a place called Duc Lap.

The Duc Lap team was billeted with the MACV-Advisory Team at the ARVN District Headquarters Camp. Lieutenant Scott B. Tolman, whom I was relieving, was being promoted to Detachment Commander in Ban Me Thout. The Duc Lap team was supposed to have three US personnel assigned to it, a lieutenant as team leader, a sergeant as agent handler and a specialist fourth class as a clerk-typist. They were also supposed to have a civilian interpreter. Most of the other field teams were at full strength. The US Personnel on the Duc Lap team actually consisted of me, myself and I. That was just fine by me because working alone suited me just fine. If I screwed up, it would be my own damn fault and I would be the only one to suffer for it. My interpreter was a Mnong tribesman.

Major McCoy, a missile command officer, was the Adviser to the District Chief. His team also included a weapons man and I think that I will call Sergeant King; a radio operator named Specialist Koch; a medic by the name of Staff Sergeant Rowden; and a team sergeant, Sergeant First Class Wagner. A young male Vietnamese cooked for the team, but I can’t remember his name. Never did I make any great effort to learn any Vietnamese’s name because they might turn out to be the enemy and I might have to kill them before they killed one of us. To me, naming them and truly becoming friends with them, would have been like hand-feeding, petting and naming a calf that you intend to slaughter. That is a very big no-no. To me, they were potential targets that walked and talked. At most, I just nicknamed them as I did our cook who was simply "Cookie" to me.

The camp was very small and poorly defended. We had a tiny compound inside the Vietnamese Camp. Our compound was only about a hundred feet long by seventy five feet wide. Our latrine, showers, storage areas, and messhall were above ground. We slept in a very large bunker that reminded me of the main bunker on the SOG Camp at Khesanh. We were lucky. Major McCoy turned out to be a damn good officer, Cookie was a damn good cook and all but one of the other guys were easy to get along with. The weapons man struck me as being an obnoxious, back-stabbing asshole, but what the hell six out of seven is doing damn good and besides, there was no chicken shit out where we were.

Only about a year earlier, the enemy had overrun this District Headquarters camp and also the Special Forces camp that was located just a few miles east of us. In fact my old Team Leader from the 46^th SF Company, Captain Roland Greenwood, had been assigned to the SF Camp at Duc Lap at the time and had lost a leg in that battle. It had only taken Sir Charles about thirty minutes to wipe out the District Chief’s camp and our MACV compound. The battle for the SF camp had lasted a couple of days and the enemy had only managed to take part of their camp before the Special Forces Mike Force reinforced the camp and ran them off. Sergeant William Knutilla, who also served with me on the same team in the 46^th Company, had been a member of that Mike Force at the time.  The camp and the men stationed there had since been converted to a Ranger camp.

Not including my interpreter, I inherited seven native agents, one main agent and three two-man teams of field agents. The main agent, a local native school teacher, was the only one that I ever met face-to-face. He met with the other six agents. At each meeting, I first de-briefed my main agent and then briefed him on the next mission for his agents, who were all natives. The field agents worked in two-man teams because their job required them to travel long distances by foot through the mountains and jungle, almost all of which was controlled by the Viet Cong, Pathet Lao or NVA. No one, not even the natives, traveled afoot through that area alone.

Mostly, I targeted my agents against Cambodia which was only a couple of miles from our camp and an infamous haven for enemy troops. Because I had never actually been into Cambodia, I was assigning target areas from my topo-map [topographical map]. If I had actually seen the land for myself, I would have felt a lot better, but I had orders directly from my Group Commander that I would not participate in any activity that might put me in direct contact with the enemy, such as field operations or recon-flights. They did not want any agent handler to be captured and interrogated. Well, I couldn’t disagree with that, I certainly did not want this agent handler captured, that was for sure, but I did want to become more intimately familiar with the terrain in my area of operations.  What I wanted to find most of all was three different permanent terrain features each with another permanent terrain feature within sight of it.  This way I could send each of my teams to one of those locations and tell them I wanted to know what they could see from that point.  If their story didn't jive with what I knew for a fact was there, I would know they had not actually gone there.

I learned that MACV-SOG used the air strip at the Ranger camp at Duc Lap as a launch site for operations into Cambodia when their teams were operating from our area. And that their operations were almost always preceded by recon-flights and those flights were conducted by army pilots who flew two-seater, one-engine planes that resembled Piper Cubs. I can not recall who told me this.  SOG at that particular time might not have been known as SOG, I really do not recall what their unit at Ban Me Thout called itself then.  SOG went under a variety of names and each of their launch sites and camps must have changed names three times.  It would take a platoon of Philadelphia lawyers to unravel it all.   

The next time those pilots showed up I headed for that airstrip to talk to them. They agreed to take me on their next flight the following morning.  I honestly do not remember whether I told them why I needed to see the topography on that side of the border, but if I didn't-I should have.  If I didn't, they may have thought I was just a joy-riding strap hanger.  I'm almost certain that I told them who I was and why I needed to fly over that terrain.

Bright and early the next morning, I showed up with my map and binoculars.  One said, "Well one plane is going to fly high and one low. Since you want to get a good look at the terrain, you will ride with the pilot that flies low." "That’s fine by me." I responded, "Let’s go." I really did not fully understand what he meant when he said I would fly with the "low" man.  As it turned out, their idea of 'low' and my idea of 'low' were quite different.

After I squeezed into the rear seat of my appointed plane, away we went. About ten minutes later, I folded up my map and put it back in my pocket. We were flying so damn low, the map and binoculars were useless because we were traveling so fast the passing terrain features were just a blur and all I could see was my what was in my immediate vicinity. 

We flew so low along the trails we could see foot prints and tire tracks from bicycles.  I said "we", but the pilot was the one that saw it and told me.  I only saw a blur. The pilot continuously flipped the plane from side to side. Because we were so low and directly over the trail, the only way we could see the trail was to look out the side of the cockpit, but we had to be flying on our side to do that. You can’t stay in the air very long if you fly only on your side at that speed so my pilot constantly flipped our tiny plane from one side to the other. Where the trees were farther from the trail, and we flew lower than the tree tops.  Many of the trees in those mountains were 60-100 feet tall.

I remember flying above a trail in the mountainous jungle that passed by a beautiful waterfall and I remember flying over some treeless plains, but I had no idea where we were except over Cambodia wester of Duc Lap.  I got the distinct impression that my pilot was trying to get me air sick and/or scare the shit out of me. This flight lasted for about four hours. When we finally landed back at the air strip and I wasn’t sick, they seemed disappointed and looked sheepishly at each other. I told them, "I couldn’t see enough of the terrain to satisfy my needs so I would like to fly in the high plane on your next mission over that area. Okay guys?" "Yeah chief. Okay," they chimed.

Shortly after that, I heard that the pilot that I flew with flew that general area again   and a commie fifty caliber machine gun put a bullet right through his head. There’s a saying amongst pilots that I now understand much better. It goes something like this, "There are old pilots and there are bold pilots. But there are no old, bold pilots." I suspect whoever coined the phrase was serious, but I also suspect that a lot of the younger pilots thought that it was just a joke-at first.  I don't recall whether those pilots worked out of that air strip again during my tour, but I do know I never flew with them again.

[I do not know how accurate the information in the last paragraph above is.  I just know that is what I was told, but I can't remember who told me that.  How anyone other than me and those two pilots knew who I had ridden with is beyond me.  I do not remember those two pilot's names.  If that aviation unit had more than two pilots flying in support of the Ban me Thout FOB, the pilot that was later killed may not have been one of the men that I flew with out of Duc Lap.]

From seven agents, I built my agent network up to 21 agents total. There were three Main Agents working out of Duc Lap and each of them supervised three two-man teams. By then I was working 18-20 hours a day, seven days a week. Being a one-man team, I did everything except translate. One day, I received a letter from my Detachment Commander that read something like this, "As the team leader, you must attach a critique sheet to each of your agent handler’s report." When I mentioned this to Scott, he said that he would remind our Detachment Commander, Captain Douglas C. Shelton, that I was working alone. Shortly after forwarding another report, I received another notice from Captain Shelton that was identical to the first. I ignored it because I figured that this had been prepared before Scott had contacted Captain Shelton. After I submitted my next report, I received a notice that "ordered" me to include a critique sheet as a cover letter.

So when I submitted my next report, I did as instructed and attached a critique sheet to it that read something like this:

"Team Leader/Agent Handler/Clerk-typist Valentine has performed his duties in an outstanding manner and under extremely hazardous conditions. Team Leader/Agent Handler/Clerk-typist Valentine is extremely courageous, dedicated, and intelligent. This Team Leader/Agent Handler/Clerk-typist’s report, like all of his previous reports, is perfect and no less than brilliant.

I, Team Leader/Agent Handler/Clerk-typist Valentine, without reservation, strongly recommend Team Leader/Agent Handler/Clerk-typist Valentine for immediate promotion to the next higher grade. I, Team Leader/Agent Handler/Clerk-typist Valentine, believe that Team Leader/Agent Handler/Clerk-typist Valentine should be seriously considered for a direct commission to the rank of General."

Naturally the signature block read, "Donald E. Valentine, Team Leader/Agent Handler/Clerk-typist." I can be a wise ass sometimes.  Shortly after I forwarded that report [with my critique sheet attached] via the next milk run chopper to my superiors, I received a formal letter from my Detachment Commander that exempted me from the requirement of including a critique sheet as a cover letter to my reports. Lieutenant Tolman would critique my work and provide me with a copy. Which was the way it should have been in the first place.

There were only two major roads in the immediate vicinity. One ran in front of our camp and if you took it north, you would eventually end up in Ban Me Thout. The other branched off of this road and ran along the north side of our wire to the village of Duc Lap where, if you turned left, it would eventually lead you to the SF camp. To my way of thinking, there were only three decent locations outside our camp to meet with my main agent so I that’s where I always met them. Each time we met, I randomly rotated the meeting sites so no pattern could be established. After I submitted a few reports, I received a critique letter that admonished me for always meeting in these three locations. It suggested that I should always meet in a different location and always travel different routes to these meeting places. Hell, any idiot knows that. But sometimes we just don’t have those luxuries available to us.

Naturally, this brought out the SF side of my nature again and I responded with another letter, "There is only one access road into our camp. It intersects with one of the only two roads that we have in this entire area. In order to go anywhere I must travel on one of these roads, sometimes both. Our entire area is very rural and very remote. There are a limited number of spots where I can stop and pick up my main agent without us being seen together. Our only protection is for us to never be seen together. There are also a very limited number of spots where we can park for a couple of hours for the debriefing and briefing session." They never complained about where I met with my agents after that. Almost all of their other Agent Handlers were based in at least a small town.

In April 1971, I received word over the radio that my half-sister was dead. That totally surprised me because Sandy was barely sixteen years old. The 525^th had already arranged for me to ride on a small jet from Nha Trang to Saigon and had reserved a seat for me on an airliner out of Saigon. They sent a special chopper to our camp to take me to Nha Trang. That was most efficient thing that I knew of that any MI unit ever did.

While I was standing on the runway waiting for the jet to land and pick me up, Staff Sergeant Tony Williams walked up to me. Tony and I had served in the 46^th Special Forces Company and he had been a student in the Pro Course. He was stationed with Project Delta at Nha Trang at the time. Tony asked me, "Val, what the hell are you doing? When did you get a warrancy?" When I told him my cover story, Tony replied, "Aw Val, get off that shit. What the fuck are you really doing?" "Tony, please keep your big fucking mouth shut before my CO standing over there hears you," I whispered. Which Tony did, but not with out several winks and snickers. So much for that stupid cover story.

My baby sister’s death really upset me.  I suspected foul play because she was married to that juvenile delinquent. If he had caused her death and was still running loose, his soul may belong to God, but his ass belonged to me. Shortly after I arrived in Knoxville, I discovered from the doctors that wasn’t the case. Sandy had diabetes and she had not taken good care of herself. She had died from pneumonia.

Barbara came to the funeral home when the family was receiving friends. She was accompanied by her brand new husband, Bob Smythe [not his real name]. Bob and I had attended high school together. He had played first string center and linebacker on the football team for several years. Barbara went to St Mary’s for some type of female surgery shortly afterwards. I went there to see her and naturally, Bob was there and so was Barney Giddens, who was his best buddy from our high school football team. Barney and I had been in the same class all through elementary and high school. I wasn't really friends with them, we just knew each other.

Shortly after I returned to Duc Lap, the weapons man was suddenly transferred out. He was a grumpy little shit whose negative attitude constantly caused friction within the team. Later, I discovered why he was shipped out: he had forced a housemaid to have sex with him by threatening to have her fired if she refused. Apparently, the Major had seen her crying afterwards and asked about it and she had told him what had happened. His absence didn’t seem to adversely affect a thing. Just one less target for the enemy to shoot at.

My superiors decided to send me some help because I was so busy. In fact, I was out producing every other collection team in the country and I was working alone. That shows you how damn lazy MI guys came be. Lieutenant Tolman told me that he had tried to get a young second looie at Ban Me Thout to come to Duc Lap and work with me, but he had refused. The young second looie had even threatened to resign his commission before he would go to Duc Lap. Thinking that I could persuade the second looie to try Duc Lap before screwing up his military record, I caught the next chopper to Ban Me Thout.

The young second looie was from a well-to-do family in Atlanta and it was apparent that he had been a spoiled brat. Hell, he still was. The day after we arrived back at camp, I decided to take my young officer out in the jeep and familiarize him with the local area. "Lieutenant, grab your weapon and hop in the jeep. I’ll show you around our area," I said as I jumped in our raggedy-ass jeep and that little shit hopped in beside me. "Lieutenant, where’s your weapon," I asked. He replied, "I left it in the bunker, Val." "Go get your harness and weapon, sir," I said. "What’s the difference? I couldn’t kill anybody with it anyway," he responded. "Well, at least the damn VC don’t know that so get it," I said. "Oh alright," he said as he crawled back out of the jeep. I thought, "You dumb ass kid. If it accomplishes nothing else, at least now they will shoot at both of us. If I was the only one armed, they would all probably shoot at me first.  The more targets for the enemy, the better."

After we returned from the short tour, I gave the lieutenant my best main agent, the one that was a school teacher in the nearby village, and I continued to work with my other agents. He and his teams were our most experienced agents.

The lieutenant spent the majority of every day sitting in a metal folding chair atop our bunker—he just sat there and stared. One day I climbed up there and asked him what he was doing. He shook his head and said, "Val, we’re in East Jesus," and continued to stare out across the old coffee plantation.

At the first noon meal, the young second looie didn’t like the way something was cooked so he just walked around behind the serving counter and started to re-cook it himself. Cookie first glared in disbelief and then he asked, "What you do?" "I’m going to cook this food the way I like it cooked." With that, Cookie reached for the meat cleaver and went after the lieutenant all the while screaming obscenities in Vietnamese. The second looie beat a hasty retreat and never again ventured into Cookie’s territory. Nor did he register any more complaints about the food.

About two days after he arrived, my new lieutenant took our interpreter and went out to meet his main agent. Three hours later they had not returned and I became worried so I got Major McCoy to accompany me to check up on them. We parked on the road and the major stayed with the jeep while I crept through the brush to where the meeting site. When I was within twenty feet of the jeep, I heard them talking and after satisfying myself that they were safe, I returned to camp. Two hours later, they finally returned. Our interpreter was sullen and stamped through the clay dust directly to me. "Mister Valentine, that man is dumb ass. He use words long as my arm. I don’t understand half what he say. Me no work with him again. He drive me crazy. Maybe I kill him." After I calmed our interpreter down a little, I talked with the second looie and asked him to tone down his vocabulary a little. But the lieutenant never made another meeting. He took an entire week preparing the reports from that meeting and as soon as Lieutenant Tolman had time to read them, here he came in the next chopper. He jerked that second looie out of that camp and took him back to Ban Me Thout that day. While the second looie was happily packing, Tolman told me, "Sorry, Val but I can’t leave him here and let him screw up the best operation that we have going." So once again, I was working alone and I did for the rest of my tour.

It is standard army policy that all agents must be polygraphed at least once every year. Not the US Agent Handlers mind you, just the agents. That always seemed foolish to me because nobody ever polygraphed the agent handlers.

Lieutenant Tolman scheduled all of my agents for polygraph tests in Ban Me Thout. All of my agents were mountain natives. My best agent had a fair education but the rest were mostly illiterates. The polygraph operator was Warrant Officer Mary Smith and she came from Saigon for the purpose. After one day trying to test the first group of my agents, she gave up. Again here came my sullen interpreter tramping towards me like he was stamping snakes. He had the same expression on his face as when he had worked with the second looie and he registered the same complaint about the polygraph operator. I asked her, "Hey chief, how did the polygraphs go?" She signed and said, "I can not polygraph them. No one can. The machine simply will not work on them because I can not make them understand how it works." "In other words, you’re telling me that my natives are too ignorant to be polygraphed. Is that right?" "That’s right. If they don’t understand how that machine works and believe that it will work, it won’t work." So much for polygraphing my agents. Maybe she might have had better luck if she simply had told them, "We have a spirit trapped inside this box. The spirit moves that needle and the spirit will make that needle make big marks on the paper every time you tell me anything that is not true." They believed that everything had a spirit, even rocks. Anyway, back to Duc Lap we went.

A short time later, my interpreter gave me a sob story and asked me to loan him twenty bucks until pay day, which I did. That was the last time that any of us ever saw him. That little shit flat disappeared. A couple of days later, I learned that he had been keeping company with another native’s wife. The husband found out and was going to kill him. It took about a week for them to send me a replacement.

Also during this year, I finally completed the US Army Infantry School’s Senior Noncommissioned Officer’s Correspondence Course. Eventually, it came my time to take Rape and Ravage [R&R] and I picked Sidney, Australia. Almost all of my entire three days of R&R was spent inside the Texas Hotel just a few blocks from the famous Sidney Opera House in the King’s Cross area. At least that’s what I think that area was called. The Texas Hotel had three bars and a restaurant. The guest rooms were very tiny with no private bath but the restaurant was open around the clock and at least one of the bars was always open. For three days, I stayed crocked. Once I found my way into the Australian equivalent of our VFW where I was made to feel right at home. I also discovered a neighborhood tavern and tried some very tasty dishes that they served. All in all I liked the Aussies, but I just could not get used to the women talking like drunken British sailors in some Victor McLaglen movie, for example: "G’day mate."

Shortly after returning to my camp, our group commander rotated back to the states and our new group commander took over. He immediately began visiting all of his units and for some strange reason, he included a stop at my dinky little camp. Lieutenant Tolman radioed ahead and warned me that he expected a briefing when he arrived. My briefing was short, but it gave him a good idea of our situation and the enemy situation as we believed it to be. After I had completed my briefing, I asked the colonel if he had any questions. He said, "Mister Valentine, how many natives cross the Cambodian border in your area every day?" I answered, "I don’t know Sir. There are several trails in the jungle that cross the border. There’s no way of getting an accurate count of people that use all of those trails."

Again he asked, "Mister Valentine, how many natives cross the Cambodian border in your area each day?" Again I truthfully replied, "Sir, there are no fences and no gates with guards controlling their access to the border. There is simply no way of knowing exactly how many people cross that border out in the mountains on any given day."

He repeated his question, "Mister Valentine, how many natives cross the Cambodian border in your area each day?" I thought, "You dumb son of a bitch. You don’t want to hear the truth. You’re one of those West Point assholes that wants to hear the canned reply, ‘I don’t know, but I’ll find out Sir’ aren’t you? Well fuck you jerk. I’m not playing that stupid game." But I gritted my teeth and replied, "One hundred and thirty two, Sir!"

The colonel’s face turned a deep red, almost as red as mine was by this time. Both Tolman and Shelton went bug-eyed and damn near into shock. The colonel got up and strode out of our bunker with out saying another word to anyone. Lieutenant Tolman and our Detachment Commander, Captain Shelton, trotted along right behind him. Captain Shelton had recovered and was struggling not to laugh. That was the last that I heard from that idiot colonel about people crossing the damn border. No one ever tasked me to find out how many of those dip shits crossed the border each day either. Apparently, that asshole really didn’t want to know the answer to his question.

Shortly afterwards, one team of my agents began reporting on a POW camp inside Cambodia that held US prisoners. One of the prisoners was reportedly a female. When I relayed this information to my headquarters, it created quite a stir — at least in the local area. The SF guys at the SOG camp in Ban Me Thout wanted more information and they tried to get permission to try a rescue operation. My mountain native agent offered to go in a chopper and point out the spot. He even made two more trips back into that general area for additional information. The days since I had first reported the camp stretched into weeks. Apparently, they didn’t believe my agent because to the best of my knowledge no one ever followed up on the information. [Caucasian females were captured by the VC. One French lady had been captured in Ban Me Thout which was only about sixty or seventy miles from where the POW camp was reported to be.]

About that time I had not heard one shot fired in anger and that tour was almost over. A couple of more months and I could return to the "Land of the Big PX." It was so quiet, the major told us one night, "I’ve been asked to stop pulling guard at nights and I’m considering doing it." That’s when I raised my hand and stood up. I said, "Sir, with all due respect, I think that could be a serious mistake. If we stop pulling guard tonight, by tomorrow night the enemy will know of it. You can bet your life they have agents right here inside this camp." I went on to relate to them all what had happened to the MACV-SOG camp on Danang Beach in 1968 because of a lack of security by the Americans. Then I added, "You can stop pulling guard, but I’ll be damned if I’ll stop pulling guard. I’ll stand guard by myself, all night every night if necessary until I rotate out of here."

The major changed his mind and continued the guard duty until I left for the states. That was a relief because I really didn’t want to pull guard every night for the last two months. Finally my fourth tour in that stinking war was over and I caught a jumbo jet home. It took seventeen hours of actual flying time to reach California, but, if my memory doesn’t fail me, according to the clock and calendar I arrived in California only a few minutes after I left Vietnam. That was the first war that we fought in our living rooms via the TV and it was the first war that we used jets to move troops to and from the war. Neither the families who watched the horrors of war that the television thrust into their face during their dinner nor the troops that fought that stinking war were emotionally prepared for the experience. All in all, it just created an unreal situation.

While I was home on leave, I drove up to Newport and Cosby to see my grandparents, Aunt Deanie, and Uncle Glenn. Deannie was at work so I dropped by Stokely Van Camp’s canning office to see her. That’s the first time that I saw Doris Eileen Ponder. Dorey worked at the desk next to my Aunt Deannie. Honestly, I would have married that woman right there on the spot and I don’t know exactly why. It wouldn’t have made me the least bit nervous either. The instant that I looked into her eyes, I would have bet my life that she would make a good partner to ride the river with. Unfortunately, I didn’t affect her the same way.

Dorey and I dated until I left for Fort Bragg and I thought we got along great, but that’s all she wanted. Later, I learned that she had just had a bad experience with some other guy and was still hurting. So I went to Fort Bragg and hung out with my SF buddies until it was time to report for duty. Meanwhile, I heard a rumor that the army was going to eliminate my MOS and turn all intelligence collection work over to the CIA. Once again, I figured it was time to adjust my career pattern by picking my future instead of letting some jerk in the Puzzle Palace do it for me. So I called our personnel department in the Pentagon and requested that to be assigned to the Counterintelligence Special Agent course. Much to my surprise, my request was approved.

They assigned me to the very next class and after completing that course, I was to report to my new unit, the 801^st MI Detachment, which was attached to the 5^th SF Group at Fort Bragg. So I headed for Fort Huachuca, Arizona where the army had just relocated their intelligence school.

Enroute to Arizona, I stopped to see Dorey again before I left. Much to my dismay, I discovered that my tremendous native charm had still not overwhelmed her senses. On the second stretch, I drove from Knoxville to Arlington, Texas which is between Dallas and Fort Worth. Dallas was a maze of hi-rise interstate highways that swirled and looped and rose into the sky like a bowl of concrete spaghetti.

The next day, I drove the rest of the way into Fort Huachuca. All the way across Texas, I never saw a single damn cow. In fact, I didn’t see much of anything after I left Houston except wide open spaces. If you’re traveling west on I-20 through the Lone Star State, I highly advise you to have a full tank of gas for that long stretch of highway east of El Paso because there are no gas stations at any of the off ramps and those side roads just disappear across the horizon. About a hundred miles west of Houston, I spotted a mountain to my left front. It took me all day driving 65 to 80 miles per hour to pass that damn mountain. By sometime in the afternoon, I decided that I was tired of looking at that damn pile of rocks and speeded up. In the late afternoon, I finally passed the mountain. It was dark when I took the Sierra Vista/Fort Huachuca exit off I-10 and as soon as I topped the first rise, I saw the lights of the town and post. Nearly two hours later, I finally reached those lights. Right then I knew that it was going to take quite some time for me to adjust to the wide open spaces of our Great Southwest.