As an artillery forward observer with the Big Red One, my father learned to see the battlefield differently. He understood angles, distances, timing, and danger with an instinct that came only from experience. But what truly defined the next phase of his war was not what he saw from the ground—it was what he saw from the sky.

Forward observers often needed to get eyes on terrain that couldn’t be reached on foot. They inserted into hot zones, flew along treelines to spot enemy movements, and provided aerial reconnaissance for artillery planning. It was dangerous work, and to do it, they flew with the Air Cavalry.
These weren’t high, safe flights.
They were tree-top runs.
Fast. Low. Violent.
Close enough to feel the leaves slap the skids.
He told stories—rarely, and only in pieces—about the moments inside those Hueys: the doors open, the wind hammering through the cabin, the crew chiefs scanning the jungle with M60s ready. Incoming fire was common. The Viet Cong and NVA knew exactly how vulnerable helicopters were. Rounds came up from the jungle floor, hitting aluminum hulls and punching through the thin skin of the aircraft.
He told me how they would sit on their helmets during these flights so if a round came straight through the floor, it would hit steel before hitting them. It wasn’t superstition. It was survival.

From the air, he coordinated artillery strikes, marked enemy positions, and relayed adjustments to batteries miles away. Air Cav pilots trusted him. Ground units depended on him. Special Forces teams and ARVN Airborne patrols relied on the fire missions he controlled.
This wasn’t clean, distant artillery work.
This was real-time fire control while under fire.
Every correction mattered.
Every delay carried consequences.


The Air Medal was not handed out for a single heroic moment. It was earned through sustained aerial operations under hazardous conditions. His award reflected:
These missions built a bridge between his first tour with Big Red One and his later work advising elite Vietnamese units during his second tour.
Flying with Air Cav taught him the fluidity of combat, the speed at which the enemy adapted, and the precision needed to coordinate ground combat with air assets. It also introduced him to a new circle of fighters—Special Forces soldiers, reconnaissance teams, ARVN airborne troopers—men whose operations moved differently than conventional infantry.
As the war evolved, so did his role.
The front lines were no longer defined by maps.
Battles were no longer limited to battalion-sized engagements.
The enemy shifted into the shadows.
And the U.S. began relying more heavily on advisors and specialized units.
This was the environment that would define his second tour—one where he stepped into the world of ARVN Airborne operations, SOG-adjacent missions, and cross-unit coordination that wouldn’t be openly discussed for decades.
My father’s first tour with the Big Red One taught him how to survive Vietnam. His Air Cav missions taught him how to see it. But it was his second tour—serving as a U.S. Army advisor to ARVN Airborne units—that defined the deepest alliances, the greatest risks, and the lasting bonds of his war.
He did not return to Vietnam as a conventional artillery officer. He returned wearing the experience of a forward observer, carrying the instincts of a soldier who had already survived the worst the jungle could offer, and stepping into a role that placed him shoulder-to-shoulder with some of the fiercest fighters in the South Vietnamese military and our special operations teams.
The ARVN Airborne Division was not a typical South Vietnamese unit. They were fast, aggressive, disciplined, and battle-hardened. They conducted some of the toughest operations of the war, often facing NVA regulars who were better supplied, and deeply dug into the terrain.
American units respected the ARVN Airborne.
Special Forces respected them.
MACV advisors respected them.
And my father earned their respect.
Advisors weren’t placed with these units unless they proved themselves capable—capable of staying calm under fire, capable of reading the fight, capable of making decisions when the enemy was close enough to hear. His experience as a forward observer, his time flying low with Air Cav teams, and his ability to coordinate artillery and air support made him valuable.
His advisory role placed him inside the operational spaces where ARVN Airborne, Vietnamese Special Forces, and MACV-SOG teams worked. These missions often overlapped, and in Vietnam, overlapping meant absorbing the same dangers.
He lived with the ARVN Airborne.
He patrolled with them.
He fought with them.

Among the ARVN Airborne, the pink scarf was not a souvenir. It was a symbol—awarded only to those who fought with them, suffered with them, and proved their loyalty in combat.
My father earned one.
That scarf meant:
He was trusted.
He was respected.
He was one of them.
The pink cravat became the signature piece of the ARVN Airborne:
Within ARVN, the airborne were an elite, mobile, hard-fighting force.
The scarf was a visual identifier—a badge of aggression, esprit de corps, and pride.

Advisors were more than observers. They were combat multipliers:
And they did all of it while operating inside a foreign unit’s culture, rhythms, and instincts.

The ARVN Airborne didn’t give out trust easily. Their war was harder, more personal, and less supported than the American effort. They fought for their homes, their families, their own ground. They watched their country’s politics fracture while the war continued.
Yet in that world, they took my father in.
They fought beside him.
They stood with him in firefights that Americans back home would never hear about.
The translation of this document sent to my father's command is as follows.
1. McLAUGHLIN, Raymond G. – Captain – Service No. XXX-XX-XXX – U.S. Army
As the American advisor to the 8th Regiment, Captain McLAUGHLIN has, throughout his assignment, demonstrated excellent cooperation with the Vietnamese officers and soldiers of the Regiment. He has also participated in many operations conducted by the Regiment.
During the Toan-Thang operation on 29 August 1971 in the Ba-Tao area, Captain McLAUGHLIN, serving as the advisor to 4/8 Battalion, during two days (13–14 October 1971), when the 1/8 Battalion engaged with the K.1 Viet-Cong Battalion at grid XT 885…, remained calm under heavy enemy fire, direct engaged the enemy and directed U.S. helicopter units and AIR CAV forces to provide timely and effective support.
– 13 Viet-Cong killed on the spot
– Captured:
• 01 B-40 rocket launcher
• 03 AK-47 rifles
• Many important documents
This commendation is submitted to the Regiment for appropriate recognition.
Dated: 20 October 1971
Signed: Lt. Col. Trần Hiền-Hùng
Commander, 5th Infantry Regiment

The Anh-Dũng Bội-Tinh is the:
awarded for
bravery, courage, and valor in combat
against enemy forces.
This was one of the highest South Vietnamese awards for acts of heroism, usually presented for actions under direct enemy fire.
It is issued by the Trung-Đoàn Trưởng – Trung-Đoàn 8 Bộ Binh
(Commander, 8th Infantry Regiment)
To:
MC-LAUGHLIN, Raymond G. – Captain – Advisory Team 70
For:
“Về lòng dũng-cảm mà đương-sự đã biểu-lộ trước hỏa-lực của đối-phương.”
Translation: “For the courage he displayed under enemy fire.”
The certificate confirms he is awarded the:
for his actions in combat.
It is dated:
20 October 1971
and signed by the Regimental Commander.
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