INITIATION/FIRST MISSION by Bruce Carlson
	With names changed -- this is how I remember it! For my first flight with the Scouts, the good Captain assigned me to fly as the observer with Lieutenant Simmonds in Red One-Two. If you should be interested, this would make my call-sign of the day Red One-Eight X-ray. In Army aviation, it is normal procedure for the copilot to use the pilot's call sign with x-ray added to the end. Anyway, our job was to fly the wing off Red One-Six flown by CW-2 Jones. Both Simmonds and Jones had been in country for a long time and were very experienced. Jones had been in country for ten months, and Simmonds for six months. The two of them had been flying daily missions as a team for over three months. With this level of experience, they had developed a very smooth working relationship. Oh yes, both of these scouts had configured their aircraft as I described earlier. All in all, I considered myself very fortunate to be "in training" with this experienced and smooth working team. The best description of my feelings is that I have now become their semi-accepted foster-child. The two of them have now become my mommy and daddy in my transition process of becoming a scout pilot. Mind you, I doubt that I'll call them mommy and daddy. Since I was to be flying as Simmonds' observer he gave me a CAR-15 and about twenty-five magazines filled with tracer ammunition. Wisely, he was not going to trust me with an M-60 and all the damage it could do. Stepping outside myself and taking a good look, I am forced to admit that I was quite the sight as I began strapping into the left seat. Before climbing into the helicopter, I put on my "chicken plate." The chicken plate is a piece of ceramic body armor with a vest of sorts supporting it. In theory, the chicken plate will stop a thirty-caliber bullet from direct ninety degree shot. The manufacturer also claims that it will stop a glancing fifty caliber shot. Personally I will be quite pleased to never test the manufacturer's claim! Think about the problem this claim presents. If it doesn't live to its guarantee, I'll be unable to issue a complaint or to bring a civil suit against the manufacturer. I wonder. Do you think it is one of those strange"Catch 22" situations that the military is so good at creating? All the Scout pilots also carried a Colt model Nineteen-eleven, forty-five caliber, automatic pistol. Tigers that we are, we jauntily hung this pistol on a standard Army issue web belt. In truth, most of the pilots couldn't hit the inside wall of a barn with the forty-five. Yes, I mean exactly what I just said. We couldn't hit it even if someone locked us in the barn with the doors closed. Still, we carried our issued forty-five's. Lt. Simmonds showed me that the forty-five did have one useful aspect beyond its ability to shoot. He told me to twist the holster in front of me. That way, I could use it as additional "body armor" for my more private and personal parts. Laughing, he said that it was a little heavier than a protective cup in a jock strap. In truth, I'm not sure that the pistol would be a lot of protection for that tender area of my anatomy. Nevertheless, the presence of all that metal as a shield of sorts was sure good for my morale. Suited up, I looked far more like a fat waddling little teddy bear than a dashing John Wayne type figure. Nevertheless, I was prepared to win the war single handedly. At last, I was set to fly. With the help of Lieutenant Simmonds' normal observer, I scrunched myself into the observer's/copilot's seat. As a side note, Lieutenant Simmonds had not seen fit to speak to this newbe as of yet. Looking in front of me, I noted that a full set of flight controls was available to me. The controls were left in place just in case the pilot was to get killed or wounded. The thought was that having these controls would give the enlisted observer a fighting chance of crash landing the helicopter if he had to. I was told that some of the crewchiefs and observers could fly pretty well. However, I quickly discovered a serious problem. When I swaddled myself in all of this equipment, there just didn't seem to be enough space to move in the cockpit. It was really cramped. Oh, by the way, did I mention the survival vest? They also required us to wear one of them. The vest had many pockets, all of which the Cav had filled goodies like fishing lines, flares, mirrors and an emergency radio. So I wondered, if one can't move about to fly the aircraft, how in the bloody blue blazes could one land it even in an emergency? I also discovered that getting into a combat loaded Red Bird, with all my personal gear strapped on and about my body took on the farcical quality of a Three Stooges building project. To further complicate my life, I still had to manage the CAR-15, act as an observer, and not shoot us down if I needed to return fire on the bad guys. The process of "mounting up" had been a lot easier yesterday. All that I had to do was to get in and out of my little bird and fly the traffic pattern. This flight was a vastly different proposition with all this stuff hanging all over my body and getting in my way. It did not take the proverbial rocket scientist to note that being an observer, was rapidly taking on the foreboding feeling of being an awful big job. Sitting quietly, I was getting the distinct feeling that the enlisted observer was not window dressing who was just tagging along for the ride. Thinking about it, I was beginning to uncomfortably wonder if it might be the pilot who was the one who was tagging along for the ride. I am beginning to raise this question because it appears to me that the observer needs someone to fly the aircraft and act as his driver. In turn, I think that the pilot is too busy flying to do any observing. I'll know more and better as time passes. I have honestly struggled to play my role, Pastor Bill. However, a pro active guy like me doesn't like being the know nothing, do nothing, faceless nobody, stupid new guy! Yet, that is exactly what I was during my first scout flight. Both my mission knowledge and my flying usefulness was perfectly reflected during the mission which I flew with Captain Jack a couple of weeks ago. This state of affairs does not fill me with a brimming cup of self confidence. My first Red Bird mission quickly became another reinforcement that I was just a stupid know nothing new guy. Like Captain Jack, the first thing that Lieutenant Simmonds did was to briskly put me in my place. "Hey newbe, strap yourself in, don't touch anything, don't do anything, and keep your mouth shut." I don't know if all new guys get this treatment. All I can do is pray that I am not just considered any stupider than most of the new guys that come here. If I am, well . . . I'm getting painfully accustomed to the role. After giving the question of my abilities as a new guy serious consideration, I kept my big mouth shut. I decided that I wouldn't risk asking anyone where I rate on the stupid new guy scale. I fear that someone might volunteer an answer which I would prefer not to hear. They have another name for new guys in Vietnam. Believe me, it is quite a bit less complimentary than being called a newbe. Forgive my secrets, but since you are my pastor, I won't share this obscene name with you. Sometimes it is more politely expressed when someone calls you the military acronym, FNG. I suppose that I can only hope and pray that I am only getting the standard U.S. Army/Air Cav issue new guy treatment. The thought of being considered exceptionally stupid brings me no pleasure. With a little luck, I am getting the standard new guy treatment. I never thought that I would hope and pray that I am only average "new guy" stupid. Honestly, this treatment is enough to make you feel stupid even if you are not! As hard as it may be for those who know and love me to believe, I did exactly what Lt. Simmonds told me. Without a single comment or wise crack, ole Kev obediently put on his flight helmet and plugged in the radio cord. Then, I strapped myself into the four point crash harness. Of course, I didn't touch anything in the cockpit. Here's a news flash. I even managed to keep my mouth totally shut through the whole process. (I knew that you wouldn't believe that outrageous claim!) Like Captain Jack, Lieutenant Simmonds' hands quickly, quietly, and efficiently flew about the cockpit of the helicopter, in their preparation for takeoff. Before I knew it, the engine was lit off, we were up at flight idle, and we had told Red One-Six that we were ready to I really can't tell. Maybe Lieutenant Simmonds simply might not have liked flying with a new guy. On the other hand, he may not be very talkative either. In either case, up to that time, he did not deem it necessary to address my lowly person. Well . . . he did tell me to keep quiet and mind my place. Whatever the case may be, it was becoming clear, to me, that these guys in this Cav unit knew exactly what they were doing when it comes to this flying business. Now that this first mission is safely under my belt, my situation is becoming clearer. I am beginning to understand that there might be some very good reasons why Scout Pilots are the tightly closed society I have seen. It kinda scares me Pastor Bill, I secretly wonder if I will ever be able to act, look, or be near as competent. I mean these pilots look, sound, and act confident even before the aircraft leaves the ground. This may not make any sense, but, they swagger without swaggering. Maybe the old hands are correct, this training time is beginning to look like a good time to keep my mouth shut and learn all that I can. Do you think that my mom was correct when she used to tell me time and time again that it was not a bad thing to keep my mouth shut? I clearly remember dear Mom's words. Heck, I should remember, I heard them often enough. "Kevin Paul Johnson, sometimes it is a whole lot better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you are stupid. It is much better, than opening your mouth and proving to one and all that you are truly stupid." A few minutes after we were airborne and heading out to our AO, area of operations, Lieutenant "the silent" Simmonds spoke. Somewhere in flight, he developed a new found kindness and deemed to speak to a distinctly lower life form such as myself. "Ok Johnson. You've got the helicopter." That meant that I was to take the controls and fly the bird. As I took the controls into my greedy little hands, the Lt continued. "Just keep your distance from One-Six and fly this thing in a real loosy goosy wing. By the way Johnson, please try not to crash and kill me." If I had been confused about it, my station in life was beginning to become clearer. The Lieutenant did not, in any way shape or form, feel required to build up my self confidence as a pilot or as a Scout. As far as he was concerned, confidence building and emotional support were not part of his job description. After stretching himself a bit and lighting up a cigarette, Lieutenant Simmonds saw fit to speak to me on the intercom. "Given that you are a stupid newbe, I'll keep this really simple, Johnson. You just keep flying the wing on One-Six, and I will tell you the straightforward facts of life. For the time being you are to remember that you are positively the stupidest creature that God ever put on this good green earth. You are not to do anything without my permission, period. That means that you even need my permission to take a leak! You are to do exactly what I tell you to do, and, you are to do it at the exact moment that I tell you to do it." If Lt. Simmonds wanted me to feel warmly welcomed, this was not the way to do it! Thinking carefully about his approach, I felt it best not to point out his nurturing omission. Seemingly without pausing for breath, he continued my briefing. "Now, these are what our jobs are. First, my whole purpose in being here today, as a wing man, is to keep One-Six alive and well. That, my young friend, is the only reason you and I are in this helicopter. Furthermore, from this minute on, the only reason that we were born, is to keep One-Six alive and well! If One-Six calls 'taking fire,' I will turn the helicopter and fire the mini-gun directly underneath his aircraft hoping to make the bad guys stop shooting. If I get lucky, maybe I will even kill a couple of them. Perchance you should see any muzzle flashes, you are to call them out to me. Then, and only if I tell you to, you are to shoot at them with that little pea shooter they handed you on the ground. Whatever you manage to do, for God's sakes, don't hit the rotors or the mini-gun. I sure as heck don't need to be shot down in the middle of bad guy country by some stupid butt new guy! Always remember my young friend, our purpose here is to keep One-Six alive and well. The United States Army, in its great collective wisdom, created us for nothing more and nothing less. He is doing the recon. We are not doing the recon!" Following his overwhelming torrent of words, he again became silent and withdrawn. The Lieutenant was blankly staring at the passing countryside as I was flying the little helicopter. His stare seemed to be what all the paper back novels call the one-hundred-mile stare. After a bit, Lieutenant Simmonds seemed to return. He continued. "Now, you Johnson, have but two things to do, and hopefully even a dumb new guy like you can remember them. First, your mission is to keep me alive! However, I do not delude myself in thinking you will have any idea what is going on if things get noisy and the bad guys come out to play. Nevertheless, that is your job as the observer in the wing bird, to keep me, the pilot alive. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut unless you see we are taking fire. If you see someone shooting at us, holler out loud and clear on the intercom. Tell me where they are and what they are shooting. Always remember that you are not a trained observer! Today, you're just along for the ride! These enlisted observers see far more than you ever will see. Even if you fly these things for a year, you will never be able to see as much as they do." Once again he paused as if to gather his thoughts. "The second thing that you have to learn is how the wing man flies his mission. The wing man's only mission, as you hopefully still remember, is to keep the lead bird alive. You do remember after the passing of all this time since I last told you? As far as I am concerned, you had better learn it really well. If my worst fears come to life, one of these days, it might be my wing that you are flying. You had better be planning on keeping me alive! Today, though, the monkey is firmly on my back. I have to keep One-Six alive. Then, I have to keep myself alive. Further adding to my mounting woes, I have to keep you alive. Enough said, keep your mouth shut, your eyes open, and the good Lord willing you just might even learn something." That Pastor Bill was the most that I had heard Lieutenant Simmonds say the three or four weeks I had been with the Cav. We flew along silently for about another ten minutes. The whole time I was sweating profusely while vainly trying to fly mostly straight and level. At last, I heard One-Six tell command and control that he was descending. I looked questioningly at Lieutenant Simmonds not knowing what was to come next. As much as it pains me to admit it, he was totally correct. I was just a stupid new guy. Furthermore, I had no idea what was going on. Simmonds then grunted over the intercom, informing me that he had the aircraft. Spiraling down to the left, we moved a little further away from One-Six as we descended into a small valley traveling at about ninety knots. With just a small touch of his normal compassionate kindness, which he generously showers upon us new guys, Lt. Simmonds suggested that I lock and load my CAR-15. The good Lieutenant had not forgotten my stupidity. Reinforcing his earlier lecture, again, he sternly warned me not to shoot us down in my stupidity. As he was speaking to me, he turned on his master arm switch for the mini-gun, lifted the trigger guard on the cyclic stick, and put his finger on the trigger. Reaching up with his thumb, he clicked the radio on and curtly made his radio call. "One-Eight is ready to rock and roll." The way we flew was like nothing I had ever done before. In fact, it was nothing like my first mission with Captain Jack and I thought that was something else. The feeling of speed totally mesmerized me. The excitement of possible combat, and my own exhilarating response to it, left me breathless. What we were doing was nothing like flight school. It was . . . Well . . . it was incredible. Racing down the valley at ninety knots, we were only about ten feet above the towering trees. My pulse was pounding like a trip-hammer as we raced one behind the other down the valley. Ninety knots is close to one-hundred miles per hour and I thought I could reach out and touch the trees! Not having any idea what else to do or what I was supposed to do, I pointed my CAR-15 out the door. Struggling to be useful, I tried to look deeply into the flashing green blur of the jungle canopy. However, I could see nothing in that sea of green which was passing just scant feet below the skids of the speeding helicopter. I also tried not to think what would happen if we hit the trees racing past us. That's right. I didn't see and couldn't see a thing. All that presented itself to my untrained eyes was just a confusing blur of endless green stuff. This strange sea of green was flashing by faster than my untrained brain could process what the eyes really never saw. Then again, I didn't know for sure what I was suppose to look for. In truth, my "observing" didn't make any difference given that I had yet to learn how to see like a real observer. Something else was happening that was taking me by surprise. I was also trying not to acknowledge the quickly increasingly strong taste of fear that was rising like a bitter sour bile to the back of my throat. My response to this first recon was unacceptable. I believed that all Scout pilots are fearless. Chocking back the bile, I couldn't decide if I was afraid of the flying or of the unseen bad guys. Constantly flying a highly irregular pattern through the valley, Red One-Six was slowly reducing his speed by gradual increments after making his first pass. Lieutenant Simmonds told me on the intercom that they usually made the first pass at high speed to see if we would draw any fire from the bad guys. He calmly informed me that being shot at while flying fast was better than to be shot at while flying slowly. Fast, he said, was a much more difficult target. That declarative statement made good sense to me, and who was I to question his wisdom? As One-Six continued to reduce his airspeed we also were slowing, though not as much as he. Covering him, we would continually weave back and forth behind One-Six. Maintaining our higher speed, we were always facing him, always alert, and always ready to respond if someone started shooting at him. In time, One-Six slowed to a near walking speed as he was doing his recon. It was all new to me and I caught myself looking at his Loach. One-Six was opening up the tops of the trees with his rotor wash so that his observers could look behind and below into the trees. You wouldn't believe it unless you were there Pastor Bill. The guy in the back seat was standing on the skid looking straight down into the rotor wash with his M-60 pointed down into the wash. Yes, he was calmly standing totally exposed on that helicopter skid. Staring into the trees, he seemed to be a naked statue before God and the world. The intent enlisted observer was a perfect target for anyone who happened to be looking. I couldn't decide if I was watching was guts and gumption, or, if it was sheer stupidity. Whatever the case, he was standing exposed on that skid. It looked like he was presenting himself as a perfect target for the bad guys. Surprise -- Surprise. Mental musing about the back seat observer became the center of stupid Kev's attention. Forgetting my own job, I asked myself which was the predominate aspect of the observer's personality, his guts or his stupidity? Suddenly, I heard a very angry and unhappy voice resounding through the intercom. Unexpectedly it came crashing painfully into my consciousness. "Hey stupid! Stop watching One-Six and get your eyes back where they belong! In case I failed to tell you, I'm planning to go home alive. That means that I am not going to allow some stupid new guy to get me killed!" With a guilty start, I tried to jump ten feet in the air. Fortunately, my safety harness restrained me. Feeling like the damn fool which I was, I got back to business of trying to be an observer. Properly chastised, I refocused my eyes on the jungle passing beneath and to my side. Just as I had been earlier, I was looking and looking for the bad guys. Blind Kev was looking, looking for the NVA, looking for the Viet Cong, looking and looking, yet not knowing what I was looking at. As we protected the lead ship, Lt. Simmonds gracefully turned, weaved, and wove the little helicopter from side to side. Moving at forty knots, we drifted from the right to the left, and from left to right. It might have appeared that we drifted aimlessly. However, we always kept One-Six in front of us in case he took fire. Without warning and much to my embarrassment, the would be Scout pilot began to become a little queasy. For the first time in my short aviation career I was rapidly becoming motion-sick. Desperately hanging onto my aviators pride, I said and did nothing to indicate my distress. I was not going to let anybody know just how quickly and how horribly sick I was becoming. In fear and trembling I cried to myself. "This is just what this stupid new guy needs. If I become airsick, boy-o-boy would everybody have had fun with that." As I came closer and closer to a miserable death by air sickness, a fleeting thought brought a snide and sick smile to my face. "Somehow, it would be an act of justice that if despite my best efforts not to get sick, I vomited my breakfast all over Lt. Simmonds. He has earned it since he has been so kind to me." Finally the inevitable was at hand. I knew that the end of my life as a military pilot was but scant seconds away. Dying a little bit at a time, I knew that no hope remained for me. It was but just a matter of fleeting seconds and I was going to barf everything I had ever eaten in my whole life all over myself and all over the aircraft. No doubt about it, I was going to disgrace myself. To my horror, I was going to be nothing more than another funny story told throughout the Army Aviation Community. Undoubtedly, they would call it the story of "the barfing new guy." Seconds remained before I became another pathetic tale told at the Officer's Club till the end of all human history. After we landed, I would never be able to face the guys in the Scout platoon. They were going to laugh me right out of the troop. Worse yet, if I survived after barfing my guts out, I was going to enjoy the questionable privilege of cleaning the helicopter under the laughing supervision of its crewchief. Closing my eyes I could see a horrid picture. That pathetic picture was forcing tears of shame and horror to freely flow from my eyes. Every enlisted man on the whole base was going to be down on the flight line. Smoking and joking, they would be pulling up chairs, popping a cold one, and settling back to enjoy this pilot's final humiliation. With no other choice left to me, I patiently suffered the coming of a gruesome slow death. Carefully listening to my vivid imagination, I could hear the laughter resounding bitterly in my ears. When I walked into the club tonight, they all would chant my story in perfect harmony. "There he is, Red One-Five the worlds greatest -- Barfing Scout Pilot." In desperation I prayed. Maybe, if I had a little luck, I might just quietly discontinue my human existence and drift into quiet oblivion of death. Just maybe, I would just peacefully expire without anyone noticing my final demise. Possibly God would be gracious and the bad guys would give me a break. Hopefully, they would shoot me dead and short-circuit this coming misery. Life wasn't fair. Nothing had prepared me for this humiliation. How come John Wayne never barfed his guts up all over the patrons of the movie theater? How come none of the heros in all the paperback novels I had ever read ever barfed up their guts? Like all young men, I had occasionally drunk too much and been sick as a dog. (Please don't mention the drinking part to my folks.) However, this, was ten times worse! My dying thoughts were neither glorious nor heroic. They were just overwhelming. Nevertheless, my misery was the canter of the world. Seeking death, I had ceased to care what was happening with or to One-Six. If he had been shot down and crashed into a towering inferno, I doubt I would have even noticed the smoke and flames. Had the world, as we knew it, ended, I would have been oblivious to the smoke and flames of the final conflagration. Unless my own situation of nauseous distress drastically changed for the better, I would have been totally oblivious to any change. My extreme distress centered my complete concentration upon me and my suffering. All my efforts were an increasingly vain attempt of trying not to make a total fool out of myself. Suddenly, as if it had been by Divine providence, Command and Control came to my rescue. The radio rang out with some of the most beautiful words ever uttered in all of recorded human history. These were the finest life saving words ever uttered by any human being. They called us to check out a small village about twenty klicks away. Not a moment too soon, we began to make a wonderful stable, calm, and smooth climb to altitude. As we climbed, I came to my own understanding of heaven. It wasn't quite like I learned in Sunday School. Speaking quietly, Lieutenant Simmonds then reminded me to put the safety on my CAR-15. Then, totally astonishing me, he spoke his first kind words to me since I had arrived in Viet Nam. Looking directly at me, he seemingly compassionately asked an obviously stupid question. "How are you doing Kev?" Apparently he had noticed the bright shade of lime green radiated from my sweaty skin. I believe that the bilious shade was mostly centered near my gill slits. Or, I suppose that it is possibly that it could have been the stark vision of the pasty white face of death that he looked at. I know that he was looking at the face of a man who with all his heart and soul was hoping to die quietly and unnoticed. Whatever it was that he saw, something had reached deeply into Simmonds vast store room of human compassion. Much to my surprise, Lieutenant Simmonds, noticed something that was sufficient to make him ask his almost tender question. To his question of my well-being, I murmured weakly. "I've felt better, Sir." Looking back, I must have passed a secret scout platoon initiation by not losing my breakfast and the previous fifty meals. For at the onset of my, well . . . at least it felt that way to me, last dying gasps, he began to gently laugh. I began to get angry at his laughter. Cutting off my anger, he told me not to feel too bad about being air sick. Still chuckling, he kindly assured me that every one of the scouts on their first ride as an observer had felt the same vivid death wishes. Pausing a moment, as if to think, he then added a postscript. "And, to be honest with you, I almost lost my cookies on my first flight as an observer." After a bit, I gathered one or two of my wits and had gotten my long-suffering stomach back into its proper position below my throat. Life almost seemed worth living. A few moments into my reprieve we crested a hill. On the other side was the village C&C said we were supposed to check out. Lieutenant Simmonds informed me that this was a friendly village and not to take the safety off my CAR-15. He didn't want me to make any mistakes. Taking up out covering position, we followed One-Six in a quick pass over the village. All was quiet and we returned the way we came. Though I had seen nothing, One-Six said that something didn't feel right to him. Lieutenant Simmonds must also have felt the same unease. With his voice reflecting his increasing tension, he then told me to release the safety of the CAR-15. At the same time, he slipped his finger under the trigger guard on his control stick. Unconsciously, he began lightly caressing the trigger for the mini-gun just as he did during a recon. As had become the norm for me, I was disoriented, confused, and had no conception of what was going on. The setting spread out beneath me looked so pastoral, so very peaceful, and so delightfully calm. With both Scouts keeping our speed up, we began to circle around the whole village and surrounding area. One-Six said that he was nervous about the presence of hostile forces. As far as I could see, nothing stirred and nothing caused us any threat from the surrounding area. Finally satisfied, One-Six began returning to the village. Given everyone's, except mine, uncomfortable gut feelings, we then made another cautious pass or two. Having decided that doing it was safe, One-Six came to a standing hover over part of the village. Hovering over what I thought was a peaceful scene, he made his horrific report to C&C. While he was reporting to C&C, we continued to circle the area at slow speed protecting the lead bird. When One-Six began his report, I couldn't believe my ears. I also fear that you will not believe me. However, it is as true as it is tragic. They were all dead Pastor Bill. Every one of them was dead. The NVA or VC had murdered all the women. They had murdered all the men. They had murdered all the children. Even the chickens, and pigs, and dogs, they had butchered them too! I don't pretend to fully understand what is going on over here. Whatever is happening here concerning the rightness of this war, I doubt that the answers are as simple as you might have me believe. Seeing such a sight makes it impossible to believe that this was the compassionate action of a group of benevolent people from North Viet Nam seeking to remove the presence of American imperialism from the South. Eventually, C&C called up the slicks and inserted the blue platoon. To our collective horror, they cryptically confirmed the torture and execution of every living being. Let me make myself clear. Every man, woman, child, and animal in the village had been butchered. I'll spare you all the ghastly details. It is sufficient to say they did not die peacefully and gently of old age in their sleep. From what the ground troops later described to us, most of the villagers probably welcomed death as a gift from God when it finally embraced them. I am not sure what else I can tell you, except that Lieutenant Simmonds said that sometimes this happens to friendly villages. This mindless butchery is supposed to serve as a warning from the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese about what happens to those who do not see things their way and support them. I know that this undoubtedly is the longest letter I have ever written in my whole life. Nevertheless, I felt that sharing with you some of my feelings and observations was important. After all, if nothing else, we have always been honest with each other. I also know that I need to get this letter in the outgoing mail because it is getting late and I want to get some sleep. However, you have got to believe me when I tell you that those "valiant freedom fighters" are killing innocent civilians. These are the same people whom some of your friends are calling benevolent liberators! Wow! I have never spent a night and a whole day writing one letter. Until my next note, I remain your friend. Kevin