After two days of foot dragging, the adjutant, Major Wilkinson, told me that I would be assigned to the ARVN 7th Division’s 2d Battalion, 11th Infantry Regiment as assistant battalion advisor. The battalion was stationed at Binh Duc, a sprawling compound of tin shacks that accommodated the division’s training center and a regional military airfield. This battalion was part of a mobile strike force consisting of the 2d and 3d infantry battalions and the 32d ARVN Ranger Battalion. Together, the strike force operated in all four provinces of the 7th Division’s area of operations.

I became energized as we traveled the last few kilometers of my long journey (this jeep ride to Binh Duc being a continuation of the roughest jeep ride of my life). We drove past the helipad where I had been deserted a couple of days earlier. I noticed that it was located between a canal and a cemetery where crypts were positioned above the ground, like those in New Orleans, because the water table was too high to bury the dead below ground.

We continued through coconut and banana trees until we turned at a sign on a dirt road that announced our final destination. I didn’t think it was possible for the dirt road to be rougher than the paved road, but it was—and twice as dusty.

As I tumbled out of the wretched jeep, Capt. Bobby Hurst showed great enthusiasm when he met me. Bobby was from Florence, Alabama, and the senior U.S. advisor to the battalion. He spoke with the rapid clip of an Alabama fast-mover: sometimes I found that he had finished talking before I had started listening. His zeal was abundantly clear and contagious. Bobby had a reputation as a rising star in the army. He moved with short, jerky movements that matched his speech but he obviously knew what he was doing, and that was okay with me. I would adjust and learn to listen faster because my survival was associated with what this experienced officer had to offer. We would get along fine, and, besides, he was the boss—it was my responsibility to see that we did. As I looked Bobby over, I was reminded of the greenness of my uniform and the brownness of his. That distinction alone highlighted the chasm of experience between us. I had not yet stepped into a rice paddy to stain my green fatigues, but that would soon change.

Bobby introduced me to the rest of the team. Sergeant First Class Mendenhall, from somewhere in Florida, was the senior team sergeant; he was soon to be promoted to master sergeant. Mendenhall was an experienced soldier, not easily shaken. Staff Sergeant Rich, from South Carolina, would operate with me in the field. Rich was much younger, about my own age, but competent with more time in service than me. “Zeke” was our Vietnamese houseboy, and Major Bouie was the battalion commander.

I was shown a ramshackle sandbag bunker right outside our door, our last refuge in case of a serious attack. I saw the generator that provided intermittent electricity and the refrigerator, which was chilled by blocks of ice. A single bed and a metal wall locker were mine when we were here. One room in the building was filled with plastic furniture and primarily used by Vietnamese officers to play dominoes late into the night. The entire tour took less than five minutes. Finally, after traveling halfway around the world, I was fully oriented and ready for combat.

One last point on my orientation tour was a visit to the old French-style latrine behind our quarters. The place could be found in the dark by its smell. It was situated in a chest-high tin shelter and separated into four stalls. Inside each stall was a ceramic floor with two footpads separated by a hole between them. Nearby was a 55-gallon drum filled with dirty canal water. The pads were used for squatting, and the canal water was for flushing. The notion of using the contraption while trying not to breathe was nearly enough to make me stop eating at all, but not quite.

I settled in with the others for my first night in the real army. After a dinner of canned beef stew and French bread, I read a paperback western that Bobby had already finished—until I had to make the inevitable dash for the French latrine. No matter how rushed you were to make it in time, you had to remember to bring your own toilet paper.

Despite the grandness of the adventure, it all boils down to a series of little things. I had hoped there would be more to the war than this, but somehow I knew there would be much more.