Called “everything a war memoir could possibly be” by The New York Times , this all-time classic of the military memoir genre now includes a new forward from bestselling author and retired Navy SEAL Jocko Willink. Whether he was fifteen years old or forty, David Hackworth devoted his life to the US Army and quickly became a living legend. However, he appeared on TV in 1971 to decry the doomed war effort in Vietnam. From Korea to Berlin and the Cuban missile crisis to Vietnam, Hackworth’s story is that of an exemplary patriot, played against the backdrop of the changing fortunes of America and the US military. This memoir is the stunning indictment of the Pentagon’s fundamental misunderstanding of the Vietnam conflict and of the bureaucracy of self-interest that fueled the war. With About Face , Hackworth has written what many Vietnam veterans have called the most important book of their generation and presents a vivid and powerful portrait of patriotism. Colonel David H. Hackworth served in the military for twenty-five years and received 110 medals for his service. He is the author of About Face , Hazardous Duty , The Price of Honor , and Steel My Soldiers’ Hearts . He died in 2005. Jocko Willink is author of Extreme Ownership , a decorated retired Navy SEAL officer, and cofounder of Echelon Front, where he is a leadership instructor, speaker, and executive coach. Jocko spent twenty years in the US Navy SEAL Teams, starting as an enlisted SEAL and rising through the ranks to become a SEAL officer. Jocko returned from Iraq to serve as Officer-in-Charge of training for all West Coast SEAL Teams. During his career, Jocko was awarded the Silver Star, the Bronze Star, and numerous other personal and unit awards. In 2010, Jocko retired from the Navy and launched Echelon Front where he teaches the leadership principles he learned on the battlefield. Jocko is also the author of the children’s book Way of the Warrior Kid and the New York Times bestseller Discipline Equals Freedom . Chapter 1: 6 February 1951 1 6 FEBRUARY 1951 We called him “Combat” because on training maneuvers he’d go up the goddamn hill standing up and shooting. The whole platoon harassed him for not using cover, but on the next problem he’d do the same thing. Hack was an eager guy. He did things—he didn’t sit back and wait. Captain Steve Prazenka, USA, Ret. Intelligence and Reconnaissance Platoon Sergeant Trieste United States Troops (TRUST), 1947–50 WHEN I first saw them, about a thousand yards to our front, the enemy looked like little black ants racing from the village toward snow-covered hills. It was a clear, cloudless morning; the temperature hovered around zero as the tanks kept rolling, closing on the ants and the hills set astride the road dead ahead. My squad was riding piggyback on the lead tank. It was no honor being first in the grim parade; we’d already ravaged the tank’s toolbox and knocked off some rations to eat on the way, and now our only comfort was the motor of the M46, which belched welcome heat over our near-frozen bodies. The tank commander relayed Lieutenant Land’s order to dismount. I got the guys off like a shot and hit the ground running as the tank rolled on beside us. But when I looked behind me, I saw that the rest of the 3d Platoon had not dismounted. Maybe I’d heard wrong. Maybe I was just overeager. But it’s damn near impossible for infantrymen to reboard a moving tank, so there was no choice but to keep running, and hope I hadn’t blown it too badly with the Lieutenant. I didn’t see the ants again for what seemed a lifetime, but I sure as hell knew where they were. In an instant, the familiar roar of the tanks was drowned out by the deafening sound of incoming—machine gun, mortar, artillery, and self-propelled antitank (AT) fire. Like a buzz saw, the deadly cross fire was cutting into my platoon. There were at least a dozen enemy machine guns on the high ground on both sides of the road. My guys, still running alongside our maneuvering tank, were totally shielded; the other squads, on the exposed decks of their tanks, were hard hit. By the time we made it to the side of a rice-paddy wall and set up a base of fire, most of what was left of 3d Platoon was scattered across the frozen ground. The tanks pulled off the road and rolled into position on line. Once there, they froze. Earlier, in the assembly area, a tank commander had told me his unit, the 64th Tank Battalion, hadn’t seen much hard combat. I believed him: as soon as they were fired upon, these tankers became paralyzed. They plumb forgot all their training and just sat there in those great big armored hulls, while the enemy went on throwing everything at us but the mess-hall wok. I jumped on the back of the platoon leader’s tank, and thumped on the hatch with the butt of my rifle. The lieutenant opened the hatch a crack. “Hey, Lieutenant,” I yelled, “get some fire going at the enemy! Get the big gun going! Get the mach