In early April 1969, I found myself in a surreal situation, after which I was never the same. I was in a small village (name unknown), accompanied by a South Vietnamese lieutenant named Bao. Educated in the United States, Bao spoke English fluently, and knew the area well. I was standing no more than 3 feet from the mangled body of a young Vietnamese woman who it appeared had been struggling to protect her children as the village came under fire. Both of her arms remained clutched around her three small children. The village had been bombed just minutes before our arrival by U.S.-trained and equipped South Vietnamese pilots.