A letter from former Scout, "Zip" Faltot
I had to write you (you wrote me some time ago saying how you
remembered me) and tell you how much your entry meant to me.  The night of
the attack on our basecamp I was going nuts trying to find Wilcox.  I
climbed the compound tower and using a bullhorn called out his name.  For my
trouble, a series of sniper rounds passed by.  I searched and searched and
couldn't find him.  The next morning I sifted through the ashes of what had
been the Recon Hootch and found a few bones.  I was devestated.  For years,
I have carried the mistaken image of Wayne trapped in the burning building,
trying to get out and not making it.  The image has haunted me, Kerry.  So
much so that I wrote a poem about it back in the early seventies:

                          VALENTINE'S NIGHT 1969
                Ground attack!
                Wilcox, where are you?
                Rockets coming in; sappers coming in.
                Wilcox, where are you?
                Automatic weapons' fire; illumination flares.
                What's happening?  Are they inside?
                Buildings burning . . .
                Shouts, screams, yelling.
                Wilcox, where are you?
                Smoke clears; firing stops.
                All accounted for, save one.
                Save one?  No one can save Wilcox.  He's missing.
                WHERE ARE YOU?
                Sifting through the ashes
                in the dawn's early light
                I found him ---
                two bones lying in the ashes,
                looking up at me and asking
                Sleep, Wilcox, sleep
                and don't ask questions.

Your entry about how he was killed outright by the RPG has put to rest the
grisly false memory I have been carrying around for years.  You'll never
know how much peace you have given me.  God bless you and Doug Burrell and
God bless Wayne.
Jim "Zip" Faltot