The popular night spot sat along the beach in downtown Nha Trang, and like most of the important buildings, it was surrounded by a six-foot whitewashed wall. Nha Trang, Vietnam was a beautiful French Colonial beach city. The view from the club front gates looked out on Highway One and the South China Sea. Blue-green waves washed on the shore, and palm trees dotted the silver beach. It was 1967, and we were at war.
A grenade suddenly bounced onto one of the tables inside the crowded club and exploded in a bright flash. Tables and chairs and other shrapnel took out the patrons closest to the flash, including one Vietnamese waiter. I was on patrol close enough to hear the blast. I was with Company A, 504th Military Police and I pulled up to the club in my Jeep as smoke billowed from the building. Behind the six-foot wall, the mixed crowd of GIs and locals were running out of the club in a panic toward the front gate of the wall.











