LRRP Team Leader: A Memoir of Vietnam

LRRP Team Leader: A Memoir of Vietnam

by John Burford
LRRP Team Leader: A Memoir of Vietnam

LRRP Team Leader: A Memoir of Vietnam

by John Burford

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Overview

For the LRRPs, courage was a way of life

Vietnam, 1968. All of Sergeant John Burford's missions with F Company, 58th Infantry were deep in hostile territory. As leader of a six-man LRRP team, he found the enemy, staged ambushes, called in precision strikes, and rescued downed pilots. The lives of the entire team depended on his leadership and their combined skill and guts. A single mistake—a moment of panic—could mean death for everyone.

Whether describing ambushes in the dreaded A Shau Valley or popping smoke to call in artillery only yards away from his position, Burford demonstrates the stuff the LRRPs are made of—the bravery, daring, and sheer guts that make the LRRPs true heroes. . . .

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780307775269
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 01/12/2011
Sold by: Random House
Format: eBook
Pages: 224
Sales rank: 263,304
File size: 803 KB

About the Author

Sergeant John Burford was the leader of F Company, 58th Infantry during the Vietnam War. He is the author of LRRP Team Leader: A Memoir of Vietnam.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1
 
I always jump when my name is called on a PA system, and this time was no different. I don’t think I will ever get used to being paged. I finished my conversation with George Reed, we shook hands, and I walked up to the show office. I told the girl behind the desk that I was John Burford. She said she had an important message for me, and handed me a slip of paper. I took it, said thanks, and went out to the hallway. Written on the paper was—It’s Friday, call C. D. Burford at work NOW!!—I headed for the pay phones lining the wall to call my brother. He wanted to know why I hadn’t called earlier in the week. I said I was sorry but I had gotten busy and the time just got away from me. I told him I had everything under control and I’d be leaving the show in about two hours. He wanted to be sure I could get to Newark, so I ran it down for him again. I’d take the bus to La Guardia Airport, catch the airport shuttle over to the Newark Airport, and call him when I got to Newark so he could come and pick me up. We said goodbye, and I hurried back to the floor of the show to see a few more friends before I left.
 
I was excited. I hadn’t seen my brother and his family in five years, and this show had worked out just right. When I heard Butch Lahmann, the owner of American Specialty, was having a truck accessory and 4×4 trade show in New York City, I knew I could take some time to visit with my brother. I’d been looking forward to getting to his house all week, and to make sure I had the time to visit after the show, I booked a Saturday afternoon flight back to Georgia.
 
I had been a “manufacturer’s representative” for six years, and trade shows were always a busy time. I went back to the hospitality room to see who was still around before I headed back to the booth. I had three booths to visit before I could leave the show, but I worked the eight southern states, and I didn’t expect to see very many of my customers up here. What I needed to do was get in touch with more people who made 4×4 accessories, and this was the best time to do it. The two hours till closing time went by quickly, but I managed to see the people I needed to see. When the show closed, I went to the hospitality room, got my suitbag, and headed out for the bus to La Guardia Airport.
 
We got to La Guardia after an hour of traffic and bumps. Now I know that every time they fill a pothole in any part of America, the hole is sent to New York City. After I quit bouncing, I got my bags and set out to find the shuttle bus for the Newark airport. I quickly found out that the only difference between the ride to La Guardia and the ride to Newark was that it took longer to get to Newark.
 
I settled down in my seat and gazed out the window at the traffic and the skyline of the city. Slowly I let my mind take a walk through the hallways of my memory. It was 1980, and I had been home eleven years, yet the images were still sharp and clear. All of the faces came back to me, so young and so brave. We were children, but war is for children. Immortal, bold, bulletproof, fearless children; we were all of that, and then some. We laughed in the face of Mister Death every time we met him, yet with each meeting, a small part of us died; we came home old men. To this day, I still hold one little bit of truth close to my heart—it is better to kill than to die.
 
I was still mentally in Vietnam when the shuttle bus finally got to Newark. I got my bags and called my brother to pick me up at the airport. He drove us to the house, and was I in for a surprise—the three little boys weren’t little anymore. David showed me to my room and helped me hang up my suits. Then he asked if I had brought the books and photo albums. I assured him I had brought all the photos and books about Vietnam that I owned, and I asked him if he had gotten the beer he’d promised. He took me downstairs, opened the refrigerator with a flourish, and showed me twenty-four beers, neatly stacked, ice-cold, and waiting. I knew I’d have to keep my end of the deal and tell him and the kids about the time I had spent in Vietnam.
 
My sister-in-law, Debbie, fixed a great meal, and after dinner, David and the boys headed to the living room while I went upstairs for my photo albums and books. When I got back downstairs, the coffee table was cleared, and a beer was waiting. I knew this would be a difficult job for me. I still hadn’t come to grips with the war, and I wasn’t sure I knew how to tell the story or how to clean it up to make it suitable for the kids. I laid out the photo albums, my 101st Airborne 1968 yearbook, and took a long pull on my beer.
 
Then I told my brother I was going to tell the story the way it happened, and if I slipped into the language of the time, then the boys might hear some new words. Also, I wanted to remind him that I had killed a few people over there, and told him that if he saw a problem with that, he needed to let me know. He told me they wanted to hear it like it was, and I could tell the story any way I wanted.
 
I told him I thought I’d tell them a little bit about the unit, our mission, equipment, and some of the people. Then I’d throw it open to questions. I thought that by answering questions it would be easier for me to keep the story rolling, and get to the points that were of interest to them.
 
I won’t spend any time on the history of the war or how it got started. The Good Lord knows there are enough books on that time in history. Besides, in twenty or thirty years, all of the thinking about the war will have changed, and the history will change with it. A hundred years from now, no one will care about what happened, or why. I only hope that somewhere down the line, the men who had to fight the war get a better shake in life than they do now.
 
Another point I want to make is the fact that I am going to tell the story straight. We’re family, and I don’t see a need to embellish the story. Besides, the truth is stranger than fiction. Every man did the best he could, and that was all I asked of my men. I was well trained, and I did my job. When it was time to come home, I did. I put my pants on one leg at a time, just like every other man in the world, but I may have been luckier than most. I always say that I used up all of my good luck just staying alive.
 
I was sent to Bien Hoa in early July 1968, and reported to the 101st replacement unit. I’ll never forget standing in front of that orderly room. I was a sergeant, so when the temporary hooch assignments were made, I was sent to the NCO barracks, right behind the orderly room. I got my bag and followed the path around to the hooch. I was walking toward the door of my hooch when a sergeant came out of the hooch beside mine. I looked at him, and he looked familiar. I glanced at his name tag to see if I could catch his name. He said, “Hey, Burford, what are you doing here?”
 
I looked back up, and sure enough, it was Jack D. Giboney. Jack and I had been privates together in A Company, 1\506, in 1962. I told him I was just coming in country and was here for SERTS (Screaming Eagle Replacement Training School). He told me to drop my bag and go have a beer with him. We talked for a long time, and he told me I needed to be in the 101st’s long-range reconnaissance patrol company. He had served with them before being assigned as an instructor to the SERTS program. Jack had some wild tales, and he had trained with the Aussies’ Special Air Service in 1967. I told him the idea sounded good to me, and I would love to go to the LRRPs. Jack said he would fix it right up.
 
The next morning, I finished in-processing and was sent to the SERTS area to draw weapons and field gear. SERTS was a five-day training program where division combat vets trained the new guys in the tricks of the trade and got them ready to join their combat units. During SERTS, we got up at 0400 hours for PT and spent the rest of the day in classes. We were taught ambush, grenade throwing, walking point, and other combat skills. It also was a good time to get the new men used to the heat and to help them accept the fact that they were in Vietnam.
 

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