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From: Francis Hamit
Date: 7/2/2002
Time: 1:49:49 AM
Remote Name: 209.86.213.81
Boy did we love having those guys around. They flew CAP every night over the airfield. The minigun had this amazing sound, a bit like God ripping a big phone book in two. Special Forces D team liked to keep their hand in, so they would run deep patrols beyond the perimeter and call back VC positions to TOC. A Cobra would go out and stick thast big red finger right down Charile's throat. One night both Cobras went out and gave a bit of land out by the river the full treatment, miniguns and rockets, one pass from the left, one from the right. Allegedly there was an entire regimetn setting up to attackl the airfield. They counted 3,000 dead the next day I was told. 235th was a bit strange to deal with. They had attitude. Wore black cowboys hats, Class "A"'s with copmbat boots, that kind of BS (Only Special Forces was allowed to do that, and not in a combat zone) I did have one encounter with their First Sergeant. I was assigned garbage truck duty one day, and, instead of my M-16, took my 45, which I carried as a courier, in a shoulder holster. It was about 110 and everyone, even the Vietnamese on the truck, were moving slow. This was an all-day gig, and it was about two in the afternoon when we stopped to pick up the 235th's garbage. As they were dumping it, I saw something that looked like a brown manual cover flash. I stopped , told everyone else to stop what they were doing and stand away from the truck. They tried to ignore me, but once I put my hnad on the 45 they obeyed fairly quickly. I got into the truck and dug into the most disgusting mess that a city boy like me is ever likely to see. Under about a foot of mess, I found not one, but two classified tech manuals for the Cobra. I wiped them off, told the garbage truck crew to stand by and walked over to the 235th's Orderly Room. When I entered, their First Sergeant, dressed in Class A's with spit shined combat boots stared at me. I reeked, I was very dirty and I was in his space. He inquired, rather harshly, what the hell I was doing there, I walked over to his desk and dropped the manuals on his desk (they landed with a very satisfying splat) and replied, "These are yours, I beleive." He took one look and turned white as a sheet. I left him to contemplate his delimma and let my own First handle the rest of it. I don't think anything official came of this, but someone had screwed up bigtime. Hopefully they tightened up their security.