As the dew burned off at Mole City, our remote firebase, the whirling sound of a Chinook closed in on our location. I pulled the pin for purple smoke, and the hissing sound of the smoke erupted from the canister. The pilot reported “I identify purple.” “Roger that,” I replied.

The dual-rotor craft approached with a sling of goodies. Everything for Mole City was delivered by Chinooks. The exception was an extremely rare hot meal that we may have had at Thanksgiving or Christmas, and that was only if we were lucky.

As the Chinook slowly descended and hovered in place, its precious cargo touched the ground, and the webbing fell away. The delivery was large, heavy wood crates. They needed to be unloaded, unpacked and delivered to the fire base. That was accomplished by means of back-breaking work of soldiers like me.

We formed a human bridge and methodically hoisted the 105-millimeter artillery shells and the rest of the ammunition to the next man and so on until they reached their destination, the ammo dump. I hoped my place in this human bridge was not downwind of the diesel-fueled burn pit. Suddenly, I inhaled a whiff of the drifting black smoke that made me want to puke.

When the initial delivery was cleared, in came another Chinook with a small bladder of drinking water and C-rations. There was no mess hall cooking at this rough and dirty outpost. After each five-gallon container was filled with water and the bladder was emptied, the containers along with C-rations were carried to Mole City.

Wait. Someone almost forgot the dirty, drab green bag on the ground. Mail!

A voice yells out, “Ain’t no use in go-in’ home, Jo-dy got yo’ gal an’ gone.” Sure, that soldier got some dirty looks, but we all knew there was some truth in what he said. The Dear John letters appeared more frequently in that mail bag than anyone would like.

After the ammo was neatly stacked and the water had been delivered to the squad areas, those not pulling guard duty quickly assembled for mail call. Pushing and shoving, soldiers surged forward anxious to hear their name as the names on the list were called. Anything handed to you meant a connection to home.

As my name was called out along with some derogatory comment, I wondered about the number of sarcastic or mean-spirited comments that were hurled during mail call. Even rank did not seem to make one immune from the commentary. I moved quickly through the crowd to pick up my box and slither silently back to the dirt bunker I called home.

Knowing I was going to have to share the box’s contents with my men, I wanted to open the box alone and savor this little piece of home. I pictured my mom and my sister making and carefully packing the oatmeal raisin and peanut butter cookies, along with the Jiffy Pop popcorn, the hard candy and the pictures and letters from much-missed family.

After reading the letters, I heard loud whooping and hollering outside my bunker. It sounded like a pack of hyenas waiting to pounce on their prey. There was still some time before the nickel bags of potent Vietnamese pot would open, so I decided it would be safer to pop the Jiffy Pop with C-4 (explosive) now, rather than later.

As I prepared what I hoped was a safe amount of the C-4 to pop the corn and not blow the place up, I thought again of my mother. I was sure she expected this box of treats to last me for a whole week or more. Realistically, it was gone in less than fifteen minutes.

I guess we had all become a pack of wild, screeching animals. War can dehumanize a man. But thousands of miles away, my mother decided to tame the wild beasts with a box of cookies, popcorn and candy. She knew what I and my men needed in that far away dirt hole named Mole City. Mom always said she had a sixth sense when it came to knowing what people needed.

Thanks mom. We love you!