Camp Hoa Binh, Chau Long Province

24 January 1968

The helicopter approached Camp Hoa Binh from the north. Veteran Special Forces Master Sergeant Alexandru Mihnea looked out towards the camp, his large wide-open brown eyes took inventory, analyzing his new home for the next year. It was typical of the current camps being built: Five-pointed star, oriented to the north, two points towards Cambodia, two points bordering on the outskirts of the District Capital of Hoa Binh; Strike Force—five Civilian Irregular Defense Group infantry companies, one in each point; inner compound, US and VN Special Forces plus two Combat Recon Platoons; two helipads, one inside, one outside the gate; Two tubes of 105mm artillery, probably from the South Vietnamese Army Brigade in Chau Long. As the chopper got closer he continued to study the camp layout: the inner and outer defensive berms of the camp looked good; there was concertina wire just outside the berms, not the new razor wire—he made a mental note of that; four mortar positions: two 4.2 inch, two 81millimeter; The tower looked like it was for observation only, no machine-gun visible; No machine-gun positions visible on the inner berm. He would look into that also.

The chopper touched down on the pad. He threw out his kit bag before exiting with his rucksack and weapon.

Staff Sergeant Larry Laughlin, the team Demolitions Sergeant, stood there in all his glory. The dark tan on the upper part of his body indicated he never wore a shirt. He still had the Ruger .357; still thought he was a cowboy, wearing his gunbelt slung low with the holster tied off on his leg.

Mihnea, bull-necked, six-foot two, two hundred and ten pounds, towered over his demo man from his previous tour in South Viet Nam. He shoved his hand at him and said, a smile on his face, “Goddamn it, Laughlin, you could have put a shirt on for me. Where the hell is everyone else?”

Laughlin took the hand of his old team sergeant from ’66 and shook it vigorously. Fixing him with his sinister smile, he said, “Good to see you, Top. We’ve got two companies out on combat operations; most everyone’s gone. I’m in charge, or I was until just now.”

Laughlin grabbed Mihnea’s rucksack and slung it over his shoulder as Mihnea picked up his kit bag. The two walked towards the jeep as the chopper lifted off.

They threw the new team sergeant’s stuff in the back seat of the jeep, and with Laughlin driving, headed into the camp, stopping in front of the team-house.

The team-house was a wooden structure with a tin roof. As you walked in the door you entered the bar area, behind it was the dining room. Further back on the left was the kitchen. On the right were three small sleeping quarters. The first one was for the team sergeant. The light weapons man and the junior medic occupied the others. Sandbags to a height of four feet protected the building’s outer walls. An American flag flew over the entrance.

Anh, the cook, and the two houseboys, Lai and Tan, stood inside the building and greeted the newest team member. Laughlin introduced them to Mihnea. He said a few words to them in Vietnamese and they nodded at the new team sergeant and returned his smile.

After they dropped Mihnea’s gear in his room the two sergeants headed off towards the communications bunker. “That Anh is a good-looking woman,” Mihnea said.

“You got that right, Top. I’d like to have a shot at her,” he replied, his sinister smile returning.

“Nobody better be touching that, or any other female in camp,” Mihnea said. “I’ll break their fucking neck if they do.”

“Ah, we just look, —you know that, Top. If someone wants to get laid, they go to Tay Ninh.”

“Good,” Mihnea said. The stern look on his authoritative face with its aquiline nose, strong chin, black crew-cut hair and bushy brows framing piercing eyes that missed nothing, reminded Laughlin that Master Sergeant Mihnea was someone you didn’t cross.

The commo bunker, bristling with antenna, was the largest structure in camp. It was constructed of twelve inch by twelve inch timber. Additionally, sandbags, three wide, were stacked to the roofline around the perimeter. The roof was topped with fifty-five-gallon drums filled with sand under a flat tin roof. Overall the bunker stood fourteen feet high and the outer walls measured forty feet by fifty feet. Deep inside, an air-conditioned commo shack linked them to their higher headquarters, the Special Forces B-Team at Tay Ninh, and to the C-Team at Binh Hoa. The commo men, the senior medic and the executive officer slept in the bunker.

The two entered the commo shack. Sergeant Lonnie Chapman was on the radio, completing a routine commo check with one of the field elements. When it was complete Chapman got up and offered his hand to the new team sergeant. “I remember you from Phase Three training, Chapman,” Mihnea said. “How are you doing?”

“Pretty much adjusted now,” he replied. “I’ve been through a couple of mortar attacks and went out on my first operation last week.”

“Good,” Mihnea said. Motioning towards the radios, he asked, “How are the two operations going?”

“No contact yet,” Chapman said as he ruffled through some papers until he found what he wanted. “This is for you. An extract from the Signal Operating Instructions listing the suffixes of the team members.”

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