From the Delta to the DMZ: Sean Kelly, War Correspondent

By Paul Sinor

From firebases to rice paddies, from Saigon streets to jungle ambushes-Sean Kelly reports from the front lines of a divided nation at war.

A syndicated columnist caught between worlds, Sean Kelly searches for the human stories behind the headlines of Vietnam. His weekly dispatches reveal what the evening news can't show: the quiet

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best - Historia
• Release date: Mar 4, 2025
• ISBN: 9781685129095

Paul Sinor

Paul Sinor is a retired US Army Lieutenant Colonel. During his career, he had two combat tours during the Viet Nam War, and other diverse assignments, from company commander to being on the staff of the Secretary of Defense. His last military assignment was the Army Liaison to the Television and Film Industry in Los Angeles. In that capacity, he was the script consultant and on-site technical advisor for a multitude of feature films, including Transformers 1-3, I Am Legend, The Messenger, Taking Chance, GI Joe, and numerous episodic television series. As a novelist, he currently has over twenty books in print from traditional publishers. This includes two mystery series. Eight of his screenplays have been made into feature films, with one: Minutes to Midnight resulting in him being awarded a People's Choice TELLY Award as a producer. His ninth feature film is currently in post-production. He holds a BA in Criminology and an MFA in Creative Writing and is a member of MWA and ITW. He has been a presenter at numerous writer's conferences and is active in all forms of social media, with websites devoted to his books and movies. Paul has taught screenwriting at the University of West Florida and the University of Washington.

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Paul Sinor

FROM THE DELTA TO THE DMZ

Sean Kelly, War Correspondent

First published by Level Best Books/Historia 2025

Copyright © 2025 by Paul Sinor

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Paul Sinor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-68512-909-5

Cover art by Level Best Designs

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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To the men and women who served in Viet Nam, especially those who never came home.

And as always to Jewell who waited.

You have never lived till you have almost died.

For those who have had to fight for it,

Freedom has a flavor the protected will never know.

—Anonymous saying from Viet Nam

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

About the Author

Also by Paul Sinor

Chapter One

Life in a war zone, no matter the country or the conflict, is the ultimate dichotomy. Men are in combat someplace fighting for their lives while others are in rear areas having the time of theirs. Viet Nam was no different.

I had a friend whose father made the landing at Normandy on D-Day. He reached the sea wall unscathed and made his way through France and into Germany with an infantry unit. He spent almost two months in the snow at Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge and finally was given a four-day pass to go to Paris when the Germans surrendered. He and a friend found a hotel room, several bottles of liberated wine, and, although he didn’t tell his son, I imagine some ladies of negotiable affections to accompany them to the room. Once in the room, he took off his shirt and twisted his arm too far back, cracking his collarbone. True or not, that was his story. He came home with scars from the surgery to repair the bone and no purple heart for combat wounds.

In Viet Nam, men were wounded or killed in combat a few miles outside some of the larger cities in the country, while others were getting injured or killed by accidents at the military bases, run over by civilian taxis and busses, or killed by jealous boyfriends who claimed the same Vietnamese girlfriend.

No one wanted to die in country, but for many, there was a certain amount of honor if they were killed in combat.

As a war correspondent, I was not assigned to any particular unit. I had the luxury, if that is the proper word, to roam the entire country and report what I saw and heard. In most cases, all I had to do was show my press credentials, and I could catch a ride to almost any place I thought there was a story worth reporting. Many times, I had no real idea or unit I wanted to see. Sometimes, Wess Price, the photographer who worked for many of the correspondents like me, and I would hit a dry hole when we landed, and other times, we found something that we had not anticipated. I kept a board in the office where I always came back when I was in Saigon. On the board, was a list of places and things I heard about that I wanted to check out or see for myself. As I checked one off, I usually added two more. With any luck, the war would not last long enough for me to complete the board.

My only obligation was to the Nielsen News Network, the syndicate that sent me to Viet Nam and paid my salary. I was contracted to write a mostly weekly column for a group of newspapers back in the world, as the United States was known by the military over here. When I first arrived, I immersed myself in doing my job. I went all over the country chasing down stories, watching people get shot at, and unfortunately, seeing a few get shot and once or twice see them take their last breath. When I was not out with a unit, I was in Saigon. It was here that I met the other reason for my being here and not wanting to go home.

Her name was Carmen, and she worked for the US State Department as a civilian.

I had spent the previous evening with Carmen, the woman I was now irretrievable in love with. We met and after several dinners together and a few days of leisure seeing the limited sights of Saigon, we found that we were in love. There was no such thing as dating, as we knew it back home. No Friday nights in the back row of the local movie theater followed by a stop at either the soda shop or a restaurant, depending on the age of the couple. Here, it was dinner at a military officer’s club or a local restaurant. Look out the window at either place, and there was no question that you were in a war zone.

Every officer’s club in the city had armed guards at the entrance, and the best Vietnamese restaurant in the city was across from the Presidential Palace. It was surrounded by rolls of concertina wire and had several sandbagged machine gun emplacements at the entrances. Fortunately, the food there was well worth the effort of making one’s way past the gun emplacements.

Carmen worked for the State Department and never fully explained to me what she did, and I never dug too deep with my questioning her. She knew what I did, and we both knew we saw and did some things that would follow and probably haunt us forever, but they were not dinner table conversations.

I had a room at one of the hotels that had been contracted out by the US government to house military officers and civilians working with the military. A few rooms were available for civilian contractors and others who were either attempting to make a difference or a profit. Even though I was getting paid to be here, I felt that I was at least attempting to make a difference.

I had a contract to write a weekly column that had started out being for a small syndicate out of my home state of Florida, but as I got deeper into the war, it was picked up by several other syndicates and now reached newspapers all over the US. It was more than I ever expected, but it was something I relished as a journalist.

All I had to do was find an interesting topic to write about each week and do it in a way that the reader got a feel for what was happening to their sons, husbands, neighbors, or, in most cases, people they had never heard of. I never got deep into the blood and guts of the stories. The people back home saw that on the news every evening at dinnertime. I tried to give the background on what they were seeing and why they were seeing it.

After checking my board and deciding what I wanted to do next, Wess and I caught a C-7 Caribou. It was a plane developed by the Canadians and used extensively in Viet Nam. It could land and take off on relatively short runways and had sufficient cargo space to carry supplies or personnel to isolated locations. With a rear ramp that let down, it was sometimes used for training paratroopers. For me, it was the perfect transport to get to the remote firebases and towns where I found the stories I looked for.

We sat sideways against the walls of the plane as we lifted off from Tan Son Nhut, the massive airbase in Saigon. It was where flights bringing most of the replacement or returning personnel landed. It was where I looked up one day and saw the largest plane I had ever seen making its final approach. It looked like it had a bubble on top. I learned later it was the Boeing 747.

Every time I got into any type of aircraft in Viet Nam, I thought of those men and women who had fought in World War Two and Korea. Unlike them, we did not have to worry a great deal about being shot down by anti-aircraft fire. In the south of the country, a few fixed-wing planes were brought down by heavy machine gun fire or RPGs or Rocket Propelled Grenades. It was the Air Force and Navy jets bombing across the border in North Viet Nam, Cambodia, and Laos, two countries that we denied being in, that had to worry about the heavy stuff.

Once I had been in a Huey helicopter that made a stop at a firebase and picked up an empty tank that had held propane gas. The tank was sling-loaded beneath the helicopter, and as we were approaching the landing strip at the Can Tho airfield, we began to take ground fire. I’m sure some well-informed local Viet Cong recognized the tank and was shooting at it. Although it was empty, it probably had enough gas left in it to create a bomb big enough to bring down the helicopter. Fortunately for us, the person shooting at us was a bad shot or couldn’t hit a moving target, so we landed safely.

Once we were on the ground, the crew chief checked the Huey and was not happy to find several bullet holes. Better the Huey than the tank, I thought.

Shortly after Wess and I lifted off, I noticed one of the men, who was obviously an FNG, or Fucking New Guy, as first-timers were called, with his duffle bag on the floor in front of him. He had a gold bar on his right collar, indicating he was a Second Lieutenant. This was, no doubt, his first assignment after graduating from a college ROTC program or OCS. The bag was filled with things he would probably never use, depending on his assignment. If he were going to a field unit, he’d throw them away to save on weight. If he stayed in a rear area, he’d trade them on the black market for money, girls, or anything else he could get.

I felt Wess nudge me with his elbow and nod his head toward the man. FNG had pulled a dark green towel from his duffle bag and was holding it in his lap ready to catch anything he had eaten in the last few days. His face was not quite as green as the towel, but it was getting there. Two minutes later, the towel was full, and he was patting his feet on the floor of the aircraft to keep from filling up another towel. As a new lieutenant, or Butter Bar as he would be known until he either proved himself or got promoted to First Lieutenant and got to wear a silver bar, he did not need the added embarrassment of throwing up in front of a group of enlisted men, especially if one or more of them would be under his command.

We felt the plane slow, and the landing gear drop, so our attention was diverted from the FNG to what we were going to do or look for once we were on the ground.

The plane landed on a runway made of what was known as Perforated Steel Planking or PSP. The long strips of metal with holes in them had been in use since WWII and were effective when building bridges or runways. Placed on the ground as level as the engineers could get it, there was no need for pavement or cement. Planes could land on the PSP, do their business, and then depart.

The metal rattled beneath the plane as we touched down and rolled to a short taxi strip that ran off to one side and ended near a small wood shack that served as the terminal and operations center for the airfield. After easing to a stop in front of the building, the pilot cut power to one engine to allow those onboard to deplane and the ground crew to load cargo and outbound passengers. The entire operation took less than five minutes. That gave them time to do what they needed to do and not enough time for someone outside the airfield to set up a mortar or RPG and take the plane out.

Wess and I unbuckled our seat belts and joined the others who had caught a ride as we made our way off the plane. The day was a typical one for that time of year. Hot. High humidity. The smell of diesel and aviation fuel. The whine of the one engine still running was not sufficient to drown out the sounds of the airfield. Heavy trucks ran across a dirt track beside the runway on the way to or from places unknown to us. A jeep pulled up to the end of the building, the driver hitting the brakes and causing the jeep to slide to a stop. The sounds of a country and western song were mixed with that of a soul song coming from two different cassette players inside the terminal. The music choices of the men in Viet Nam was as diverse as the men themselves.

The Armed Forces Viet Nam Radio network programmed enough variety to please everyone at least once a day. The one that surprised me was the Saturday morning Polka Music hour. I often wondered how many people in the country even knew what a polka was and if they did, could they do it.

Once inside the terminal, we saw a large sheet of plywood that had been painted black and nailed to the wall. All incoming personnel check here for messages or assignment was written across the top. A small group of the men who had been on the plane with us, crowded around the board to see if their name was on it, and, if so, where were they going.

I watched the lieutenant as he searched for his name. He found it and traced it across to the unit designation. I saw his face regain some of its color as he saw he was being assigned to the 196 LIB.

Let’s follow him and see what happens, Wess suggested.

With no other immediate ideas, I agreed and approached the officer. Excuse me, I’m Sean Kelly, and this is Wess Price. We’d like to follow you and do a story about what happens and how you feel on your first day in country. I hesitated since I didn’t really know if it was his first day or not. This is your first tour of duty, isn’t it?

That obvious? he asked as he turned from the assignment board to face us.

We kinda got that impression back on the plane.

Yeah. That was kinda embarrassing. I’ve never had air sickness before, and I hope I never have it again. I’m not real big on flying, but I guess I’ll have to get used to it….although… He looked back at the board. I may have lucked out on assignments.

How’s that? I asked as the other men who had gathered around the board were moving toward the door, looking for rides to their units or to the counter to ask for more information.

I’m a Signal Corps officer. As I understand it, they tend to keep us back in the rear areas, if there are any in Viet Nam, and it looks like my assignment is to the 196th Library…whatever or wherever that is.

Before either of us could say anything more, we heard a loud voice telling everyone who was going to several different units or locations to load on a bus outside. The 196th was one of the units he called out.

Sounds like I need to get on that bus. The lieutenant shouldered his duffle bag.

I looked at Wess. Let’s tag along. We can see what happens when a new man arrives and how he is processed into his unit.

Sounds like a plan. I’ll shoot it beginning here in the terminal. He had his camera hanging from a leather strap around his neck. He pulled it to his eye and took some shots of the terminal to capture what was inside. He pointed it to the check-in counter where the men who had been waiting for their normal twelve-month tour to finally get a chance to leave were lined up. Two counters had signs indicating they represented two of the largest banks in the United States. This was where those departing could exchange their Military Payment Certificates, or MPC, the currency used by the military for greenback dollars. For many, especially those who were in the rear area, they represented the bank they used while in country.

Along with the US military personnel, there was a large number of Vietnamese military in uniform and a smaller number in civilian clothes, many of whom were women who were girlfriends, and a few who had married US servicemen but were unable to travel back home with them.

After watching Wess take his photos, I caught up with the lieutenant. I’m a correspondent for a newspaper syndicate back in the States. I’d like to follow you and do a column on what happens when a new person arrives in country. You game?

Yeah, I guess so. Will I be able to tell my folks about it or where to find it? We boarded the bus and took a seat. At first, he attempted to hold his duffle bag and the suitcase he had brought with him in his lap, but I pointed to the seat in front of us, which was unoccupied, and he placed both pieces there.

Yes, I’ll let you know when and where it will be published. I pulled out my notebook. The first thing I need is your name and hometown.

My name is Charles Heite, but everyone calls me Chuck. I’m from a little town outside Lexington, KY.

Before I could ask anything else, the driver closed the door and pulled away from the terminal. A second enlisted man, an Air Force Sergeant, stood beside the driver and faced us. He held up his hand to get our attention. On behalf of Uncle Sugar, I want to welcome you to Sunny Southeast Asia. We hope your stay in Viet Nam will be at least as long as what’s on your orders. There are a few simple rules you need to follow. Starting with the ride on my bus. Number One. The mesh wire on the windows is there for a reason. It’s to keep some of the locals who are less than appreciative of your presence from returning a grenade that someone lost. Number Two. The most beautiful woman you will meet here wants to marry you and have your baby. If that’s not possible, she’ll let you buy her a Honda or an air conditioner or anything else she can get from you. In exchange, she’ll give you a condition that can’t be cured with a nuclear strike, and if you value your dick, you’ll keep it in your pants. Number Three. If you want to keep from shitting away at least twenty pounds, don’t drink the water. Put the drink in the ice and not the ice in the drink.

By this time, we had driven out of the airfield compound and were on the streets of Saigon. A few of the men on the bus were on subsequent tours and had seen what Saigon traffic looked like. For others, seeing a mass of motor scooters, many with up to six passengers on them, on the wide boulevards was a new sight. The motor scooters, along with US jeeps and other military vehicles, three-wheel motorcycle taxis, and a variety of US and foreign autos, took up every inch of each street and parts of the sidewalk.

The announcements continued. And Number Four, for those of you going to units in the field, remember: If it moves, shoot it. If it doesn’t, salute it, and if you can’t take it with you, burn it. He looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to him. And finally, the best place to get a hot bath is the local steam and cream. If you don’t know what that is, you’ll find out.

Wess was standing beside the man in the doorway of the bus, taking photos of the men. He came closer to us and took one of Chuck.

"I don’t mention people by name or unit, but there is a Hometown News Release Service that I can give your information to that will send it to your local paper.

During the remainder of the ride, I found out he had gone through the Reserve Officer’s Training Corps program at a small college in Kentucky. He had no great desire to be in the Army, but ROTC was a way for him to get a free education and a job for at least a few years after graduation. He had a girl back home but was not sure she was as serious about him as he was about her. His father had been in an artillery unit in WWII, was not a fan of the military, and tried to get him to drop out of ROTC. We continued with small talk and watched about half the busload of men depart at the two stops we made prior to arriving at the transfer point for his unit.

By the time we arrived, it was getting late in the day, and the roads would be off-limits after dark, so we were taken to a large building that served as a reception station and theater.

A sergeant stood at the front of the seats. Each person coming in was loaded down with what they had been issued and what they brought with them. The ones who were on second or more tours were evident by the small number of personal items they brought.

Wess and I went to the front and introduced ourselves to the sergeant and told him what we were doing. We had to promise to mention his name in any hometown release we did in order for him to let us continue. After getting settled into seats, the sergeant began to call out names and specific assignments.

Finally, he called out Heite, Charles M. Second Lieutenant. Goes to Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion of the 1st Regiment, 196 Light Infantry Brigade.

As soon as he did, I watched the color drain from the lieutenant’s face. Light Infantry? I thought it was the 196th lib… He stopped, knowing he was about to make an un-recoverable mistake in front of a room full of mostly enlisted men. He was not going to a library assignment. He was going to an Infantry Company, most likely to be a Platoon Leader.

We watched him as he joined a small group of others who were also assigned to the 196th. So much for working in the library, Wess said.

Yeah. I knew it was the Light Infantry Brigade but I didn’t want to break his heart his first hour in country.

* * *

We spent two days with the Brigade and found out that Lieutenant Heite had been assigned to a line company as a Platoon Leader. Even though he was not an infantry officer, he was in what was called a branch immaterial position, meaning any officer could fill it.

Wess got the photos he wanted, and I got enough information to do a column on the Brigade’s actions in the field. We caught a flight back to Saigon and spent three days catching up.

On