There were leaks, of course, and diplomats from various nations came and went at the White House.
But Kennedy and his saber-rattling team would not listen to any calls for reason, for caution, for moderation, not until "the Communists are taught their proper lesson," as his brother Robert said.
We trained, and trained, and trained, and then, in endless shuttles of civilian 707s, we went to Vietnam, endless rows of tents, and more waiting for the Word.
I was a first lieutenant, executive officer of Bravo Company, First Ranger Battalion (Airborne) when the C130s finally loaded sticks of jumpers at Ton Son Nhut Airfield, outside Saigon, and droned north for the invasion of North Vietnam in May of 1965.
We kept well out to sea, as if keeping a secret, past the demilitarized zone, and then the huge formation of planes, escorted by flight after flight of fighters, were off the coast of North Vietnam.
None of my Rangers even pretended sleep, not even those who'd seen combat in other wars.
This was it, this was the big one, this is where we would stop pissy-assing around and break it off in Ho Chi Minh's butt.
Just below Haiphong Harbor, the formation split. Elements of the 101st were to jump into Haiphong and secure the harbor for the Marine landing teams headed toward shore.
The rest of us, Rangers and 82nd Airborne, went toward Hanoi, North Vietnam's capital.
My company, and two others, had been given a rather grim mission. We were to jump into almost the middle of Hanoi, just south of Ho Tay Lake. Our target was only known as a "military district," and no one really knew how many regulars of the Democratic Republic's army we'd face.
After we'd subdued these regulars, we were to head west, along the lakeside boulevard, and support other Rangers attacking North Vietnam's capitol building. We hoped to catch Ho Chi Minh and other governmental leaders at home, which, our briefers said, would end the war in a single masterstroke.
It didn't work out like that.
"Stand up," the jumpmaster shouted, and doors on either side of the C130's ramp came open.
"Hook up," and our static lines were clipped to the lines, clips facing inward.
We shuffled forward, stumbling under almost a hundred pounds of weapons and gear.
"Make equipment check."
"Sound off for equipment check."
The light next to the door was bright red.
Outside, it was a gray dawn, and below us was Hanoi, gray, sprinkled with lakes. I hoped to hell I wouldn't land in one.
"Stand in the door."
We were as ready as ready could be. Men were pressing hard against my back. We were to go out as tight and fast as we could, to keep the stick from being scattered all over the city below.
"Ready…»
The jumpmaster listened to his headphones, then straightened.
"GO!!"
He slapped me on the shoulder, and I was out into the slipstream, hands on my reserve, head bowed. The blast took and spun me, and I was falling. The static line came taught, yanked my backpack open, and the chute deployed. It cracked me like a whip, and I jolted hard.
I looked up, saw all those lovely unblown panels of my parachute perfectly deployed.
To one side of me was the huge Red River, in front and to my left, West Lake.
They'd dropped us right on target.
Above droned other planes, and the sky was full of parachutes. Parachutes and the greasy smoke of antiaircraft fire. I saw a 130 get hit, go into a bank, streaming paratroopers, and crash into the middle of a housing area. A missile flashed up, was gone, and a pair of jets dove down toward its launch site.
We'd been dropped low, only eight hundred feet, to give the enemy gunners as little time to shoot as possible.
Below me, the ground loomed up, brick walks, and, thank God, a bit of grass.
I slapped the release on my GP bag, full of ammo for one of my machine gunners, and it dropped to the end of the line.
I came in hard, rolled as I'd been taught, and came to my feet, dumping my chute, harness and reserve.
I had my newly issued M16 cradled in my arms, and carried a Light Antitank Weapon, the so-called "cardboard bazooka."
Plus a Randall knife strapped to my leg and a somewhat unauthorized Bill Jordan Special, a cut-down, modified Ruger.44 Magnum pistol.
And I still felt naked, hearing the snap-crack of rifle fire, and the chatter of machine guns.
There were other troops landing, some slamming in hard on the bricks, and someone shouted pain.
A machine gun chattered, and green tracer spat across the open area, too close to me.
They'd told us to save the LAWs for "hard targets," which I'd decided would be anyone shooting at me.
I cracked it open, aimed at the barracks the MG fire was coming from, and squeezed down on the firing mechanism.
Nothing happened.
I cursed the damnably unreliable LAW, just as someone rolled up to the window and flipped a grenade in.
There was a blast, and the window blew out, and the machine gun stopped firing.
I was shouting orders, and my noncoms were screaming, and we were on some kind of line, charging the barracks, smashing into them, killing anything that moved.
I don't remember anyone trying to surrender.
If they did, they weren't likely to be lucky.
Not that day.
Troopships with armor and legs-non-airborne troops-were supposed to be coming up the thirty-five miles from Haiphong to reinforce and quickly relieve us. Both Rangers and paratroops are intended as shock troops-go in, hit hard, take casualties, and then get out.
It didn't work that way.
We fought from that military area for two days as troops in mass, then scattered determined elements kept coming in at us.
It turned out we'd been facing Ho Chi Minh's personal security element, about a battalion-five hundred men-strong. All that saved our young asses is these Regulars were a bit out of practice, and that we'd surprised them.
The Rangers at the Palace fared even worse, getting almost obliterated. Ho Chi Minh and the other members of the hierarchy were long gone when the palace finally fell, nothing more than a mass of rubble.
The problem was, nobody had figured the Viets would fight so hard. It took two days to take Haiphong and clear the Red River. The resistance was the same sort Americans would have made if someone invaded the Chesapeake River and made for Washington.
By the time elements of the First Infantry Division arrived, our company of 250 men was down to 75 effectives, and I was company commander.
We weren't relieved, but ordered to swing toward the river, and help the 82nd take the Old Town, which was very strongly defended.
The People's Army was waiting for us.
The fighting was now the ugliest of alclass="underline" urban warfare, with civilians trapped in the middle.
The bloodlust was gone from us all, and we tried to make sure we were only killing soldiers.
But that wasn't always possible. The Viets fought hard, holding positions to the last man, almost never surrendering. Hanoi was starting to look like pictures I'd seen of Berlin at the end of WWII.
It may have been a week, it may have been two, but finally we were slowly pushing the Viets back into the Red River.
Then the remnants of a regular battalion struck, trying to head west, for Hanoi's outskirts. I'd gotten some replacements, but had taken more casualties. I had about eighty soldiers when they hit us.
They pushed a wedge between two of my platoons. I called for air support, but, in the smoke and drizzle, none of the fast movers could get in.
A colonel was on my PRC25, saying we had to hold.
But we couldn't, and I felt we were about to break.
Even Rangers can't hold forever.
But I remember we now had artillery support, air-lifted 105s.