baby scout book; a war story about gunslinging and whoring during the helicopter war of southeast asia.

BABY SCOUT is a through-the-eyes-
0f remembrance of war; a true
story of violent, bizarre adventures
in a sweatbox netherworld known as
South Vietnam.
For the first time, ever, you will learn of
the elite, all-volunteer, teenaged fighting
platoon known as the Baby Scouts.
I, your author, was a gunslinging member
and, until now, have never told anyone,
family and friends included, what I did
during my year of flying over Hell's
Frontier. After all, a son's mother need
not know what the Baby Scouts did.

Being a Baby Scout, God help me, was exhilarating fun! Hunting men was never a chore, or just a job to be
done. It was fun. For most of my tour in-country, killing was fun and being a Baby Scout was the palette that gave color to my altered personality. The firefights, gunruns, crashes, wounds, Purple Hearts...they all
were a part of being a crew chief and gunner in an aeroscout platoon of mostly teenaged warriors.
After more than 30-years, I am putting my memories on paper and into my computer. This is my therapy and
I am hoping that the dreams of killing will go away. No...enjoying the killing will go away. I brought home a lot of mental baggage that never got cauterized or bandaged. How does one heal after killing a little girl
in a rice paddy. How do you explain involvement in making an American soldier...an MIA. And, how do you explain erotic nights in Saigon and the Sex Factory of China Beach to your family. You don't. My
parents/grandparents have passed on. Hopefully, though, my children will never read this book of
bittersweet memories and contrition. When they are older, I will ask them not to. It would be too hard to
explain to them how being a Baby Scout was the thrillride of my life.

BABY SCOUT EXCERPT: It seemed eerily quiet for a country at war. The only sound was the light snoring coming from Freddy. I blew a giant smoke ring, then tossed the butt into the can. I fluffed my pillow and thought about family, girlfriends, and my new home. When sleep finally came, I never had a chance to dream. I startled awake, my body in midair, to the ear-splitting sounds of explosions, tearing metal, shattering glass, and screaming voices. I hit the floor hard,
tangled up in a knot of bedsheets, and then Freddy landed on top of me. My head was spinning but I was more bewildered than scared. The concussion from the enemy rocket was enormous. Thunder and lightning flashes could be heard and seen through the gaping, ragged holes where windows used to be. One of the guys from upstairs slid under under the bunk next to me. His eyes were wide and he was shaking. I patted him on the back and my hand came away cut and wet with blood. The soldier had a shard of shrapnel in his back. The Sarge saw us and yelled for a medic. After the walking wounded , the dead were brought out. They were carried on stretchers and covered with blankets. Dog tags dangled down the side of one of the stretchers. From another, an arm swung freely; there was no hand attached to it. Sarge came over and asked if I was alright. He had noticed the blood on my chest, arms, and shorts. I told him it was somebody elses. He laughed, pointed at my shorts and said, "Damn, son! I thought you got shot in the Johnson." As he walked away, chuckling, I looked down at my crimson boxers and wondered, "Why does the Army call it a Johnson." Later, I walked to the showers, puked, and then
watched as someone elses blood swirled down the drain. The war had come to me. I was in it before my first day, in-country,
was 24-hours old. It was at this moment that I discovered, and to my own amazement, that I was happy to be here. Little did I know that it was just the beginning of a long, bloody year...a year that would exact its toll in flesh, blood, and anguish.