#2 Letter from Vietnam

Binh Thuy, 26 October 1969

Dear Mom,

It's been extra hot lately. Yesterday the temperature climbed to 117 degrees. It's funny but I really don't mind it too much. We are either wet from the rain or from perspiration. The rain is really welcome, as it tends to cool things off.
I've been spending a lot of time moving around our various operations and trying to unsnarl hang-ups. We are having some problems in keeping our vehicle fleet in running condition - so many different types and models. They total 313 and 42 are presently broken down. There are tank trucks, fork lifts, fire trucks, dump trucks, busses, cranes, armored cars and personnel carriers, jeeps, pick-ups, tractor trailers and you name it, we've got it. We are operating with 52 percent of our manpower allotment. My screaming is beginning to be heard. 7th Air Force sent me in a team of 5 civilians this week to assist. Two GIs arrived from DaNang to help out also. The civilians are top notch; they were trained as a team back in the states and are sent around where needed to rehab heavy equipment. All our bulldozers and caterpillars need attention, not to mention the overworked forklifts and refuelers.
We had to turn down some gasoline and ammo missions for lack of refueling capability. That's when the heat gets turned up fast. It is rather difficult to explain but I'll try. We are only allowed to have 8 cargo planes on the ramp at once because of space and safety restrictions. These planes are programmed in here at specific time intervals and we have to load them with ammo and fuel and get them out of here so that the next ones are not held up. We have just enough refueling and fork lift equipment to keep up with the momentum and when one piece breaks down we are hurting. When the second one goes the airplanes stack up waiting to land because we can't keep up with the momentum.
You asked about the DASC. That stands for Direct Air Support Center. It's like a clearinghouse for controlling air strikes. They are in constant contact with ground units through the ALO. The ALO is an Air force Officer attached to the company, regiment or brigade in the field. If they get into trouble the ALO calls the DASC, gives the position and requests air support. The DASC then directs the necessary support with the needed ordnance (bombs, rockets or napalm) to the area. When the heavy jets arrive at the area (average of 10 minutes) the DASC turns control of the jets over to a pilot flying a little Cessna O-1 Birddog. The Birddog marks the target with smoke rockets (or flares at night) and directs the jets in on the target. The jets are high and out of sight until given the directions by the Birddog. A very dangerous job in this business is that of the Birddog pilot. He is called a FAC (Forward Air Controller) and he logs up to 10 hours a day in his little Cessna, flying low and slow over the paddies and jungles looking for enemy movement. The FACs fly out of here but the jets stage out of he big bases up north. There are always jets airborne in our area. They have saved the day for many a unit which would have otherwise been in deep trouble or worse. They also keep the VC from massing. At night the FACs fly the O-2 which is equipped with starlight scopes through which they can see as if it were daylight. Our people make the planes fly and the equipment run and they do a magnificent job of it.
Most all of the army in our area is now Vietnamese. Only a few small units of the US 9th Div are left in the Delta. Of course we still have advisors with the ARVN (Army Vietnam) Most of the FACs are Vietnamese but we still have about 40 Birddogs being flown by our Air Force people in the Delta. Most of these billets are to be turned over to the VNAF by Christmas.
I still have no word on how we are supposed to turn over the support jobs to the Vietnamese here at Binh Thuy but I have a good idea that in a short time we are going to pack up and leave here. I don't know how they are ever going to maintain the equipment or make this complicated logistics system work but that's the way it's going. I think the VC are just biding their time because in my book this is no way to fight a war. Once we are out of here they will come on strong and that will be the end of the greatest strategic blunder we ever made as a nation. (That's strictly my personal belief and not the official line, but most people here feel that way, deep down) It is easy to get deeply involved in the daily grind and if you are human like most guys are, you aren't particularly interested in anything but doing your job and getting out of here. So everybody does his job - like a machine.

Well, that's about it for today. Time for some needed shut-eye. Much love to all, Dave

The Daemon* In Dad

This story was written by my eldest brother, Lucien, Jr. I'm quoting it here because it is so amusing; also to preserve and make it available to our far-flung family members.

THE DAEMON* IN DAD

*Tutelary divinity -- a celestial being inferior to God but superior to man.

Lucien A. Agniel was an implacable foe of ill-gotten gain -- most particularly when it was gained at his expense.

When I was 8, I accompanied him on a business trip from our home in Jefferson City to Hannibal, Mo., a distance of more than 100 miles.

My dad had made hotel reservations in Hannibal by mail. When we detrained, he hailed a cab with the two-fingered whistle that today remains one of my major frustrations. I remember my small suitcase bouncing against my legs as I ran after him to the auto. It was almost a dead heat between Dad and a man with two suitcases, but Dad had a knack for winning the close decisions. The other fellow looked at his broad shoulders and black scowl. There was no argument.

Dad gave the driver the name of our hotel.

"Right," said the driver. He signaled for a left turn, swung the cab around in a wide arc and pulled up across the street at the hotel. "That will be 50 cents."

"Right," said Dad. That word shot out like the first hiss of steam from a pent-up radiator, and he slapped a half-dollar into the outstretched palm of the driver. I can still hear the clap of coin on flesh.

I knew better than to question Dad about getting rooked. He said nothing to me while signing the hotel register, but I detected him muttering "sonovabitch" to himself as we followed the bellboy to our room. Almost absent-mindedly, he gave the boy 50 cents -- a lot of money in Hannibal in 1927.

Then he went to work. From his sample kit, he removed two large 10-penny nails. He put them carefully in his vest pocket, hung up his other suit and told me to wash for dinner.

When we went out to eat, there were several guests sitting on the broad, shaded porch of the hotel. The taxi was still parked where it had deposited us and the driver dozed at the wheel. We walked down the street to a restaurant.

I can't remember much about that meal. I know that Dad had very little to say. His appetite, however, was good and his spirits rose as the meal progressed. By dessert, I had enough courage to ask for some ice cream with my pie. He was almost gracious in ordering it.

When Dad paid the check, he bought three big cigars and lit one immediately. I didn't think it expedient to ask about the movie because Dad obviously had something on his mind. Back at the hotel, we sat in the vacant porch chairs and watched dusk descend on Hannibal. Dad said nothing. But the blast furnace glow of his cigar reminded me he had something important on his mind.

At last, the thing he was waiting for came to pass. The cab driver crawled out, locked his car and walked across the street to a hamburger stand.

"Wait here," said Dad, when the last hotel guest went inside. As stealthily as possible, he moved his hulking 240 pounds out of the reclining chair. He put his cigar on the porch banister and walked down to the taxi. For a few seconds, he stood there, casual and relaxed -- a tourist enjoying the warm summer evening in Hannibal. Then he squatted beside the right rear wheel and propped one nail under the tire. With his foot, he lodged the nail securely in place. The cab was headed into the curb and would of necessity be backed out.

Quickly Dad stood up and walked around to the other side of the cab where he performed the same task on the left rear wheel. He came back to the porch and picked up his cigar. "That sonovabitch better have two spares," he said grimly.

In another 30 minutes the driver came out, started his car and backed away. There was a sad, whooshing duet as both tires underwent simultaneous puncture, while in the wings, Dad broke into the incongruous, high-pitched giggle which most people found infectious.

"Sonovabitch," I shouted, clapping my hands.

"Here," said Dad, grabbing my wrist, "Don't say that!"

The driver got out, looked at his sagging rear tires, stared woodenly in the direction of the laughter and went back across the street to use a telephone.

"Here," said Dad, "Skip down to the corner and buy a paper. We'll see what's at the movies."

"It's almost 9:00 o'clock, Dad. We'll have to hurry."

"If we need to," he said, almost exploding with suppressed mirth, "We can always take a taxi!"

I left him shaking with laughter, and went after the newspaper.

Lucien D. Agniel, Jr.