A long time ago, in a faraway place called Vietnam, a team of U. S. Army Special Forces troops, the toughest fighting men on the planet, eased its way single-file along a jungle path. It was December, 1972, and the Americans were withdrawing, tasting the bitter fruit of defeat. Apparently, nobody had bothered to tell the North Vietnamese troops we were leaving, because they were still trying to kill us. A nineteen year old soldier was at the head of the column, alert, scared, waiting for whatever was going to happen. That was me. A kid with a rifle. I’d been in-country for several months, and I had been in battle. The firefights always started without warning, rifles going off, men grabbing the ground, sighting on the enemy, pulling triggers, killing and wounding each other. And that’s the way it happened that hot day in December. * * * * * I’d joined the Army the day after I graduated from high school, and during the summer of 1971, I had enjoyed the Army’s hospitality in basic training at Ft.
