I can’t recall ever experiencing the depth of anger that I felt following the first night of Tet ’Offensive in 1968.   It was midmorning when I was ordered to pick up KIA’s (soldiers killed in action) at a nearby firebase.  The acrid stench of the now depleted battle engulfed my helicopter, and the pungent odor of gunpowder, burnt flesh, and death was so thick and heavy that it burned my eyes and nostrils and choked off my breathing.  Directly in front of me lay scores of blood-caked body bags embracing the precious remains of someone’s child, someone’s father, or someone’s brother.  They were lined up like distorted and bewildered fence pickets blown down by the raging winds of this godforsaken war.  The sight ignited the smoldering volcano of fury within me, and my mind desperately struggled for control.  Suddenly a squad of bone-weary men, clad in grimy, sweat-soaked combat fatigues, dashed from their shelters.  Grabbing these human remnants, they carelessly slung them into my helicopter in a disheveled heap.   My blood boiled, and my soul exploded with a silent scream.  I turned to vent my wrath on these heartless henchmen, only to see my rage mirrored in the bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked faces of men who had lost their best friends and comrades.