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. . . . 8. 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. 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. 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 . 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 i