Gladiators Playing to the Six O'Clock News, a Novel of the Viet Nam War

By C. William Klipstine

Gladiators Playing to the Six O'clock News is a fictional account loosely based on a year in the life of a young officer in Viet Nam. It has gritty language and adult situations graphically depicted in the lives of GIs at war. It follows what Lt. Marc Bowman has to go through from the time he lands in Viet Nam till he boards the Freedom Bird bringing him back to the states (The World). Although the events, situations and people in the book are mostly true the names have been changed to protect the privacy of all. The situations and people involved may be combined and attributed to Marc for consistency of storyline by following one character throughout the book. There are several scenes in the book that are totally fictional to build the characters or interest in the storyline.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. William Klipstine
• Release date: Nov 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463463093

C. William Klipstine

C. William (Bill) Klipstine is currently a retired teacher. His last position was an adjunct faculty member in the Gavilan College Theatre Department teaching Stage Production. He is retired from teaching high school after 32 years. His dramatic accomplishments include directing over 100 plays and musicals in educational and community theatre venues. In addition, he has several television and film productions that he has acted, directed or produced. Education-wise he earned an MA from San Jose State University in television and a BS degree from Ohio State University in theatre and fine arts. He has been very active in the Educational Theatre Association and was inducted into the California State Thespian Hall of Fame. Additional honors include best Scenic Design for Fiddler on the Roof, 1995; Best Show and best Special Design for the puppets in Little Shop of Horrors, 1988 and 1996; Best Orchestra for several musicals, 1999, 2002, 2006; Best Lighting Design for Fiddler on the Roof , 2002 all from American Music Theatre’s “Honors” program. He is a combat veteran serving in Viet Nam in 1969-70 as a First Lieutenant. Much of his book describes his year there. His hobby is the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA), a worldwide medieval educational organization where he participates in as a medieval martial artist. He has published a book loosely based on his experiences in Viet Nam entitled Gladiators Playing To The Six O’Clock News which is now an e-book by the same name Additional information can be found in the Facebook page for Bill Klipstine.

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Gladiators

Playing to the 6 O’clock News

A Novel of the Viet Nam War

Copyright 2005 C. William Klipstine

Published by C. William Klipstine

at Smashwords

Edition License Notes: This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

June 6, 1969

Di An

An Loc

Lai Khe

Dau Tieng

Stand Down

Dau Tieng/ Michelin

The Trap

Fire Support Tennessee

R&R

Dau Tieng

Minh Thanh

Epilogue

Glossary

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of the following people: to his ex wife Emily Klipstine who lived the adventure and then inspired him to begin to write this book in the first place, to Caroline Lim, who inspired and assisted in the writing of the love scenes, to Valerie Ludden, who read it over and helped in the initial editing, Betty Burns who has had to put up with much frustration on his part and finally Pat Barhorst Hickerson who helped turn the printed book into an e-book.

This book is dedicated to the men of Bravo Company of the 2nd Battalion 2nd Infantry of the 1st Infantry Division. Most of the events are true but have been attributed to one individual character in the book in the interest of a good story line and not meant to belittle the actions of any real participants. Although the characters are based on real members of Bravo Company each are a compilation of many people that the author has come into contact with over his lifetime. It is further dedicated to the U.S. soldier who fought in the unpopular war called Viet Nam. It is just the story of one year in the life of the common soldier, seen through the eyes of one man, who for whatever reason, whether drafted or volunteered, chose to heed the call of his country. Because of that decision he was condemned by his family, friends, the government and the society that was represented by the government that sent him to Viet Nam.

Prologue

"The man is a youngster, a teenager, but a seasoned veteran. He is a man. To believe otherwise is folly; but to gape at such truism is to be astounded by the obvious.

Where there is work to be done, no one is more capable. If the chore is mundane, he will do it, though perhaps without blinding speed. Where the task is of importance, no one will delay him. That danger crosses the path before him is of no consequence. Some of his kind have gone beyond hell and can look back in disdain. Others are prepared for the challenge. Their heritage, their training, their pride in country- all these dictate that the man respond with courage and dignity. The incident will pass and simply become a memory.

Let his manliness not belie his gentle nature. His conscience mourns the creation of death and the labors and tactics, which bring about such lifelessness. Though oncoming hordes will not incapacitate him, his heart will cry out at the sight of a child in distress.

His body is covered, not with modern fashion, but with the rags and grime of war. To remove the stain, he looks to his sleeve or a towel around his neck, not fortunate enough to have greater convenience at hand.

The clouds around him are hardly silver-lined. They are laden with rain. They are simply makers of mud. Their only value is as a buffer, stopping the sun from mercilessly bearing down.

When rain appears, he retreats to the sanctity of a disciplined mind and listens to the patter of the drops on his head, not a roof. And while others bathe, he scrounges to drink. Water is sometimes much too precious to waste on keeping the body clean.

As if to tease, the sun will replace the unbearable rain, move on to produce equally unbearable heat, and dry the feet sore and rotted. The man takes it, doing what he must, doing whatever he can against the elements.

He warms his food, if at all, with the heat from stick-like explosives, rather then a gas range. His food is usually tolerable but becomes quite tiresome after nine or ten months of similarity. Fruit cocktail and pound cake are delicacies, much the same as snails or caviar to the Beautiful People. The fruit and cake are to be sought with diligence, and protected with all but life itself.

Don’t speak of loneliness to him. He knows it too well. Don’t preach about losses, and the meaning of death. He has a history, which enables him to count higher then you. And no one has undergone more of the experiences, which make a guy cherish life and what it has to offer. He has lived and fought with great friends, some of whom will return home. But he notes the irony that those who live only to return to riots, bloodshed, and despair-or perhaps hope.

Don’t speak to him of race. The blood his brother’s shed was real, and not strangely, was as red as his. When it got down to survival and life was on the line colors blended. After all, color won’t stop a well aimed round. Speak to him of nice things. Scream about living and life itself. Whisper about people, love and softness. He is a human being, and as such wants to leave grunt and leg behind him, in the dim past, where such history belongs.

His personal victory is simply in terms of DEROS- leaving Viet Nam. He is finished his one-year tour; no more chalking off days on a calendar. And now his future lies with his folks, his girl and his world.

That world should thank him and let him go his way. Give him the respect he merits, but- no parades or pedestals, please. Allow him to pick up the pieces and move on to a new and more fruitful life.

As an infantryman, he has earned his keep, his place out of the sun. He deserves no less."

The American Traveler, 1969.

True to the promise, there were no parades, no welcome home from a grateful nation but instead condemnation, accusation and scorn. Many were not allowed to pick up the pieces and move on to a new and fruitful life but were to suffer from physical and mental disorders that sometimes didn’t affect them for years. They would have long battles with their country and the veteran associations to get the medical help needed to combat the effects of a war that everyone wanted to forget. While other warriors throughout history could hold their head up high, the Viet Nam War vet walked in shame for years. Not in the shame of what they did or did not do but they were forced to carry the shame of a nation on their backs. They were constantly pressured to invent war atrocities to be welcomed back into a society that was used to living vicariously through their real or pseudo deeds nightly on television. Wherever they went they were damned as the instigators of a war that had burned itself out. Ultimately they were blamed for the first lost American war. All of the ``````evils of the war have been dumped upon the common soldier that fought it, the scapegoats, the legion of the damned and the gladiators that played to the 6 o’clock news.

June 6, 1969

Mixed odors washed down upon Lieutenant Marc Bowman in what he quickly recognized as the smell of battle. The sickly, sweet smell of the dead, their bodies just beginning to bloat in the hot Vietnamese sun, mingled with the sulfuric, smell of cordite from thousands of dollars worth of expended ammo. Although it was noon, thick dust and even thicker smoke darkened the blazing sun. Periodic explosions and small arms fire sounded as the pursuing GIs drove the Viet Cong and NVA past the first berm of rubber trees where the wounded of both sides could be heard calling in pain to the medics, to their god or to their mothers.

He walked around the pockmarked trucks, surveying the wreckage of his first battle, his long awaited trial by fire. He stared ashen faced at the human and mechanical destruction. Men of both sides, fighting for numerous reasons, were now mere shells of their former selves staring with hollow eyes. Even the men who came out physically unscratched lost bits of their souls piece by piece, battle by battle in this war. Psychological damage increased with each fire fight, each battle with every day spent in the hell known as Viet Nam.

Marc wasn’t interested, nor did he care, about the mental effects at the moment. The physical destruction commanded his full attention. He dully stared at the bullet shattered window panes of the deuce-and-a-half trucks with silver dollar holes and tiny cracks in solid metal radiating in all directions created by impacting RPG’s (rocket propelled grenades). Debris, sudden relics of once useable material, was now nothing but twisted metal, burning rubber and broken glass. Ruined machinery was the first evidence of the calamity that had just taken place on this ground but a few short minutes past.

More important but a bit less obvious were the wasted bodies of the dead and wounded. Men had crawled off into depressions, behind trucks or into ditches to die or to protect themselves from the rain of jagged metal impersonally seeking them out to rip and tear fragile flesh and inflict pain. He stared at the charred corpse of a driver in an exploded gasoline truck still clutching the steering wheel, his mouth wide open in macabre laughter at the great joke of his own death. Marc backed away, trying to escape the sight, yet drawn to that laughing face as maggots are drawn to decomposing flesh. He tripped and fell over backwards, landing next to Spec 4 Jones, who had at last died and ceased the unbearable suffering of having both legs shattered and torn. Jones’s face was now almost serene, quiet and peaceful, with little trace of the agony that Marc had witnessed one short hour ago…. one eternity of an hour ago….

...................It had begun as a routine convoy security mission; trucks carrying ammunition, food, fuel and reinforcements shuttling up and down the red dirt highway, known locally as Highway 13, but known to the GIs as Thunder Road, that ran between Lai Kai and An Loc, a small town about 75 kilometers north of Saigon. 2nd Lieutenant Marc Bowman’s 3rd platoon of armored personnel carriers, known as APCs, 113 or tracks, and 2nd Lieutenant Avery Steinman’s platoon of tanks were detached from regular RIF (reconnaissance in force) duty to run security for the An Loc convoy. Layers of thick red dust plus the heat waves caused by the 105 degrees from the blasting sun emanating from the highway’s surface made the twisting column almost invisible. Only the snaking dust told of the passing of the resupply convoy.

Leading the column was one of Steinman’s tanks followed by one of Marc’s tracks then interspersed with deuce and a half trucks then more tracks with another tank that brought up the rear. As the convoy lumbered up the dusty highway, it left the relatively open area of scrub brush, rice paddies and the distant jungled tree line and entered the rubber tree plantations that the French Colonial owners still operated long after they had lost their war. Huge rubber trees were neatly lined, hugging the road, enveloping the convoy in a canopy of green. Parallel to the lined trees were deep irrigation trenches dug by the plantation owners to feed and water the always hungry rubber trees. Along side of the trenches were huge dirt linier hills or berms from which the trees grew. They were a natural protection for any enemy wanting to ambush the convoy and several convoys had been ambushed on this very stretch of the highway. Marc knew that these berms were ideal fighting positions; the berms being high enough to protect standing men and wide enough to stop a .50 caliber heavy machine gun round. The VC would additionally dig bunkers in the rear of the berm with firing positions going through the hillock to the front facing the highway. The firing positions were perfectly camouflaged by the natural growing trees and vegetation.

A tunnel of green shielded the sun and darkened the highway bringing back childhood fears, monsters in the closet, vampires behind doors, werewolves under the bed, but these fears were not childhood fantasies, these were real and they could kill.

Every eye, whether security or convoy personnel, was on the tree line where a potential ambush bringing instant death awaited them at any second. Sweat from the intense heat mixed with the stench of fear was oppressive. Each man clutched his weapon tightly; ready to spray the trees while simultaneously searching for any available depression for cover should the tree line suddenly erupt with fire.

Marc Bowman had the first of many recurring premonitions....... a gut level feeling that would visit him every time he went on patrol, sat in an ambush position or walked a lonely trail through a cane jungle. He would hear the faint pop of an AK 47 fired at a distance, turn and see a smoking barrel pointing at his face, the bullet traveling in slow motion as it gracefully flew toward his temple. It would strike his temple gently and lift his body through the air as if he were a ballet dancer, pivoting and throwing him head over heels in slow motion. His eyes would take in every minute detail of the flight as if he were not only in flight but observing the flight as well. As he landed, he intimately observed each blade of grass, each pebble, each tiny insect fleeing from the hollow thud of his body crashing to the ground and the outpouring of blood that flooded the peaceful environment in which they lived. His breathing would come in gasps as the premonition slowly began to fade...... always ending on the third gasp.

The metallic clank of a Chi Com .51 caliber machine gun round being seated off to the left brought Marc out of his reverie. How he could possibly hear that particular sound over the engines of his track he would never be able to explain but there it was, clear as a bell. He clicked on his CVC, communications helmet and yelled through his radio to each of his tracks and the tanks that protected the convoy..........

Ambush

At that exact moment the right side of the road belched flames and licked at the convoy. From the distance came the audible whump of 60mm mortars. Seconds later explosions between the vehicles spewed metal, dirt and flame in all directions cascading upon the serpentine caravan. The initial explosion lifted the front right side of an ammunition truck about three feet and careened it to the left up a berm smashing into a rubber tree, ending in a large secondary explosion of its cargo of ammunition which engulfed the truck in a flash of flame and black oily smoke.

Marc’s body moved with instinctive reflexes before his mind could completely grasp what was happening. The sudden change of events shocked his mind into slow motion....what took literally micro-seconds seemed to last for minutes. His mind split; part reacting, making the mechanics of his physical self respond to the action and part observing; taking it all in yet rejecting everything he witnessed. It wasn’t happening. It was simply an impossible situation. For the first time he realized that someone actually wanted to try to kill him. All of his training had been of find and fix the enemy. That meant kill them but for someone to try to kill him was not realistic. After the initial shock, the rational side of his mind convinced the irrational.......he had no time for reflection, just reaction.

A 60mm mortar round impacted upon the tank of a gasoline truck, splashing flaming gasoline across the highway and leaving an empty shell of a truck to stop all forward movement of the rest of the convoy. Sgt. Arnstein, the driver of the track immediately behind the gasoline truck, felt his hair and eyebrows singe as a wave of intense heat from the blast enveloped his upper body. Everyone else riding on the top of the track was blown through the air, like a Roman candle, landing in the middle of the kill zone. As they staggered to their feet they were cut down by the enemy’s AK47s and .51 caliber machine gun fire.

Marc’s track slid to the right as the track’s .50 caliber machine gunner opened fire. The exploding gasoline truck surrounded him in a squall straight out of hell. Oxygen was wrenched from his nostrils and lungs, leaving him momentarily senseless. He fell from his jerry rigged helicopter chair to the metal deck of the track gasping, desperately trying to suck in air. Finally like new life returning, his oxygen-deprived lungs refilled and despite the momentary loss of consciousness continued to function mostly on adrenaline. Looking up, he saw his crew recovering from their trauma and began to function, firing their weapons in the automatic manner of men trained to react without thought, without waiting for a command. Marc was assailed by the stench of burning flesh, but had no time to think, only to act, fire his rifle, assess the situation, report, react, fire his rifle, assess.........become an extension of the track, a part of the machine of war.

The intense sounds of the battle deafened Marc but the reality didn’t hit him until the first enemy rounds zipped past his ear and he could see the green tracers of communist made weapons stream all about him. Men began shouting all at once, cursing, shouting taunts or calling for orders from their leaders. Small arms, heavy machine guns, grenades, mortars and explosions of all sizes created an earsplitting crescendo that made it impossible for Marc to hear or be heard. Impotently he screamed orders to men only a few feet away that fell on deaf ears. All was in chaos. Only for a fleeting moment did Marc wonder if he had lost his voice. The frustration made him furious but he was determined to do something about it. He was an officer, Goddammit! This was his trial by fire. All of his training told him he had to do something. Do something even if it was wrong, do something!

Increased .51 machine gun fire from the berm pinned down the men in and around their tracks. With no sight of their enemy they sprayed rounds blindly toward the berm, the futile act making the GIs feel impotent. Blindly they fired......forcing their enemy’s heads down to insure equally blind return fire. Explosions of the mortars kept impacting all around leaving the entire kill zone swirling in dust and smoke making vision almost impossible.

Lt. Steinman, whose tank had cleared the kill zone prior to the popping of the ambush, lifted his body from the cannibalized chopper seat that he had attached to his tank and saw through the haze Marc’s predicament. The murderous machine gun fire pinned down Bowman and his crew. Steinman’s ROTC training taught him that when hit by an ambush, charge it. Giving the age-old hand-and arm-signal for forward and yelling, Charge, into his CVC helmet, he began to counter attack. His tank and the trailing tank lurched forward in unison as Steinman’s gunners fired increasing amounts of fire toward the enemy. Seeing Steinman’s charge, Marc, through his CVC helmet, ordered his remaining tracks to support the tanks and move forward also. Although terrified as they moved directly into the intense fire, he was relieved to be doing something at last.

The full shock of 2 tanks and 3 APCs firing simultaneously and charging the ambush was immediately evident as the entire berm of rubber trees was splintered under the barrage of flying lead. Behind the flying dirt, wood and rocks of the chewed-up berm Marc could see his fleeing enemy for the first time. Some were in the black pajamas that usually told him that he was facing VC or Viet Cong, but most of the enemy was in khaki uniforms and mushroom shaped pith helmets that told Marc that they were North Vietnamese regulars or hardcore NVA.

As Steinman’s tanks came on line and communication was reestablished, Marc dismounted his infantry and the beetle crunchers, as infantry are sometimes called, rose together to carry on the attack. His fears were replaced with excitement and exhilaration. As a romantic, Marc had a fantasy of being a cavalry officer in the West. In the excitement of the charge and of the NVA breaking and fleeing before a superior force, Steinman’s tanks and Marc’s tracks sped past the infantry and hit the berm at full speed. One of the tanks slid into a marshy trench and instantly sank up to its belly, its treads spinning uselessly and endlessly in the blood red mud.

As the APCs hit the berm they elevated and exposed the bottom of the track to attack. The NVA aimed their RPGs at the exposed soft underbellies of the tracks. Marc watched in horror as Sgt. Harrad’s track was hit. The RPG struck under the driver’s seat, leaving a small rounded hole in the shell of the track while peppering the interior with shrapnel. That was the primary reason that the troops tied old chairs to the top of the tracks and rode outside most of the time leaving only the driver inside of the track. The interior was a death box.Sp4 Jones, the driver, half leaping, half thrown, tumbled out of the driver’s hatch, his legs a bloody mess from the shrapnel. Sgt. Harrad, the squad leader, dove to the left as shrapnel from below grazed his right side. The track teetered at the top of the berm then slid down the opposite side

Marc’s track struck a rubber tree and turned sharply, throwing him into the air and landing next to the prostrate form of Jones. As his eyes cleared he saw before him Jones’ body that only a few seconds before had two perfectly good legs. Now there was nothing but a mass of tangled flesh, bone and shrapnel at the end of two short stubs. A sick taste came into Marc’s mouth and he retched.

Doc....Doc he spluttered but no sound would emerge. Shaking his head and taking a deep breath he forced himself to look away from Jones. Gradually his senses returned and again he called, Doc! This time he was heard and Doc appeared and began to administer to Jones. Marc, in shock, struggled back onto his track but the picture of that mangled body would stay with him for a long time.

Marc looked to his right, trying to get a picture of the situation as it now stood and saw Steinman’s tank top the berm and slide down the other side. Steinman was propped into his homemade chair firing his M-60 machine gun at the fleeing enemy. Marc saw a small contingent of black pajama and khaki clad soldiers circle and began to clamor up the tank. He knew he couldn’t open fire without hitting Steinman but shouted a warning into his CVC helmet. Steinman turned to investigate the warning and saw a screaming man dressed in black pajamas raise his AK 47, aim it at Steinman’s chest and fire. The firing pin landed on an empty chamber.

Ya dumb shit, Steinman bellowed and drew out his .45 caliber pistol. No time to chamber a round as the VC lunged at him with his bayoneted AK. Steinman heard the satisfying crunch as his pistol caved in the skull of the VC as the lifeless body bounced off of the turret of the tank and slid down the side of the tank tripping another VC as he tried to get to Steinman. An NVA scrambled up the opposite side of the tank as Steinman chambered a round into his pistol, aimed and fired. A black smoking hole gapped between the nose and mouth as the NVA’s head snapped backwards throwing his entire body into a graceful arch and landing with a thud.

Incredulously Marc sat mesmerized as he witnessed the ballet of the fight and death before him. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain on his cheek and slowly reached up and touched it. He pulled his wet fingers away and stared stupidly at the blood on his hand. It was but a scratch but it alerted him to a small group of enemy combatants about to attack the tank from a different angle. He lifted his M16, clicked the selector switch to full automatic and sprayed aimlessly into the attacking NVA giving cover fire for Steinman’s tank.

The remainder of Marc’s tracks and the dismounted infantry reached the berms at last and began to lay down small arms and grenade protection for the disabled tank and track. Together they broke the attack and the remaining NVA fled, trying to dodge the combined fire of the Americans. Steinman stood up and turned to wave at Marc. He was smiling. Marc saw Steinman’s feet suddenly buckle under him as some force seemed to pick him up and turn him in the air. He seemed to float for but a second then crumbled over his homemade seat, striking the rough steel of the tank’s turret with his shoulder. Marc’s stomach constricted as he watched his friend reach out and grasp air, then clutch the metal turret, sliding, bouncing off the body of the tank and landing on the hard dusty ground.

Marc leaped from his track to get to Steinman’s side.

How bad ya hit? he yelled.

Steinman, dazed, looked up through dull eyes and replied, How ta hell should I know, ya dumb shit!

Marc inspected Steinman’s body and found a hole and blood in the right cheek of Steinman’s fatigue pants.

Doc Marc yelled.

Doc came running, ripped open the pants, observed the wound and laughed, Hells bells sir, ain’t no titi wound like that gonna stop ole Magnet Ass!

Marc stared at Doc then at Steinman, saw the actual wound, and then he too began to laugh. Steinman started to laugh stopped and winced in pain. Marc kept on laughing, on the verge of hysterics as he watched Doc tape a huge bandage over Ole Magnet Ass’ wound. He managed to stop laughing when Magnet Ass Steinman got up, scowled at him and painfully climbed back onto his tank. Marc took off his flack jacket and threw it up to Steinman to use as a pillow for his homemade chair.

After finding Sgt. McCracken, his platoon sergeant, Marc commanded him to continue, along with Steinman, to mop up the remaining NVA. Meanwhile he would inspect the ambush site and make a situation report back to Captain Almound, his commanding officer.

With the initial action over, the total reality set in. Marc’s stomach began to churn as if a thousand ants slumbering in a peaceful anthill were suddenly and violently kicked into action. His face burned from the inner flame of continued unburned adrenaline flow. His body began to quiver out of control, his hand shaking so badly that he couldn’t hold his rifle still. He leaned up against the cool exterior of his track until he felt the flush begin to dissipate.

That day, back in the world, newspapers and television would report the battle of An Loc, where thirteen American GIs and 460 NVA personnel lost their lives. The First Infantry in Viet Nam, volume II, 1969, would summarize the battle thusly:

"Several days of bitter fighting, centered in the An Loc and Quan Loi areas, raged June 6th through the 9th in one of the largest enemy contacts for the Big Red One since the Loc Ninh offensive of 1967. Action at the end of the fighting accounted for the deaths of nearly 500 Communists. Approximately 300 enemy rockets and mortars were expended during the fighting.

June 6, the 25th anniversary of the invasion of Normandy signaled the start of the battle action. The major confrontation began at dawn when a barrage of rockets and mortars simultaneously impacted on the 1st Infantry installations.

The first and largest contact came two and a half miles north of An Loc when elements of Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion (Mechanized), 2nd Infantry, engaged an estimated company sized NVA ambush from a well-fortified bunker complex. The allies raked the area with small arms and automatic weapons fire as the enemy returned fire with RPGs and small arms. Artillery, light fire teams, tactical air strikes and additional units supported the action. At the end of the battle 115 enemies had been killed."

Second Lt. Marcus Bowman didn’t know about the TV coverage or about the official reports; nor did he care. He was just trying to recall how it all came about....

Di AN

Gentlemens, droned the huge black sergeant giving the initial briefing to the FNGs yes you Fucking New Guys. Danger U is the official training school for the Big Red One. Remember; IF YA GOTTA BE ONE, BE A BIG RED ONE. He laughed at his own joke. A few of his audience tittered. Every one of you new officers, NCOs and