It isn’t often that an entire rifle company runs in a combat zone. Charging the enemy at full tilt with weapons blazing went out with the nineteenth century. Running at top speed away from the enemy is too cowardly to even imagine. When every soldier in Company A ran as fast as our legs would carry us late one afternoon in the spring of 1967 there probably wasn’t an enemy within miles. If there had been one, he was probably laughing so hard his stomach hurt.

Some background is necessary. Up until shortly before this fateful day we had carried our rucksacks all day everyday. Most soldiers probably were humping seventy to eighty pounds. The RTOs had heavier loads than most, because in addition to what everyone else carried, they each carried a radio and extra batteries. Members of the weapons platoon were also overloaded. Recognizing this fact, someone at brigade, or possibly division, headquarters had sold a plan to the commander to lighten the loads of the troops in the rifle companies. Every morning our rucksacks were sling-loaded away by a Chinook helicopter. After reaching our night destination, they were returned in the same manner. Many troops, myself included, were uneasy about being separated from our creature comforts, but we had no choice in the matter.

On the afternoon of the great debacle, we had halted on a broad, flat, open area covered with dry grass. It seemed like a good time and place to call for the Chinook to deliver our rucksacks so that we would have our air mattresses, poncho liners, and other comfort items for the night. More importantly, we needed the trip flares, claymore mines, entrenching tools, and extra ammunition for our defensive position.

As the Chinook approached, the pilot radioed me to "pop smoke," meaning to throw a smoke grenade to show him where to land. I replied that I preferred not to do so on the basis that we were easy to see in a large, open area and, more importantly, I was concerned that a smoke grenade would start a grass fire. However, he insisted, telling me that if I refused to pop smoke he would not drop the sling load of our packs.

Reluctantly, I told my RTO, Sgt. Welch, to throw a smoke grenade into a shallow hole that was nearby. He did it, but within seconds a spark had started a fire. By this time, the Chinook was directly overhead, and the rotor blades were stirring the fire at an incredible rate. It was too late to wave off the chopper, and the engine noise was so loud he wouldn’t have heard me anyway.

All I could do was to yell "Run!" and set the example. The troops immediately saw what was happening and realized the danger. The pilot dropped our packs, filled with trip flares, claymores, and spare grenades and small arms ammunition, right into the roaring fire. No sooner had we reached a safe distance away than the fireworks began. It continued for some time. When I judged it safe, we went to investigate. Not much was left; nothing was salvageable.

I called the Battalion S-4 for an emergency re-supply. Unfortunately, it took a couple of weeks to get completely outfitted. At first, only the small "butt" packs were available; they were universally disliked. Of course, there were many items we lost which couldn’t be replaced by the S-4, such as photographs of loved ones and letters from home.

In addition to these losses, an item I grieved over was my bottle of Louisiana hot sauce, used to make C-rations palatable. It was enough to make a infantryman cry.