Читать книгу Salmagundi Vietnam - Don Pratt - Страница 10
ОглавлениеWHEN the hard-core Boonie Rat returns home from a tour in Vietnam, he has no qualms whatever about telling it like it is. He bombards his friends and relatives with war stories of the first magnitude: tales of devastating fire-fights, of getting cut off or surrounded by the VC, massive heliborne assaults, stepping on punji stakes and mines, mortar and rocket attacks, and just about every other form of wartime violence.
But when the guy who has spent a tour with a rear-echelon support unit in the relative security of Saigon is asked about his experiences, he will invariably reply: "It was terrible. I don't wanna talk about it."
* * *
"GET your ducks in a row, get down to Vietnam, and join the advance party."
The orders were from the brigade commander, not to me but to Captain John B. Oliver, my boss. I was one of the ducks.
It was May 3, 1965.
We bummed a ride on a C-1 30 out of Naha, Okinawa, with a load of Special Forces men. Most of them had been commuting between Oki and Vietnam for years, and their cool quenched any anxieties I had had.
When we stopped at Nha Trang, the Green Beret contingent left us and we were joined by 97 Vietnamese rangers, also bound for Tan Son Nhut. There were considerably more passengers than seats, and a load of cargo as well. It was hot and stuffy, as only a C-130 can be, and the Viets were extremely susceptible to air-sickness. They had just come off an operation and were loaded down with weapons, ammo, and grenades, for which they had little respect. My anxieties returned.
We spent the night on the floor of a hut in a Special Forces compound, and met the brigade's main body the next morning. My second night passed slowly in a foxhole on the Bien Hoa Air Base perimeter.
Some two years later I landed at Tan Son Nhut again, this time after a plush flight in a 600 mph commercial jet. On hand to meet me were two old friends, Lee Blair and Army Master Sergeant Al Corbin. They whisked me through customs and delivered me to an air-conditioned hotel room in Saigon where we celebrated my arrival with a nip from a bottle of fine old bourbon.
Who said we're not making progress in this war?
* * *
MY arrival in Vietnam was considerably less spectacular. There was no one to meet me as my unit knew only that I was expected "sometime in February." I had been in Saigon for a few days in 1955 en route to Bangkok, but remembered little of the visit.
The heat was uncomfortable, but otherwise I didn't feel much of anything. The air was ripe with strange sounds and smells, and the Vietnamese language seemed to have a lilting, almost musical quality about it. Maybe it wasn't going to be as bad as everyone had made it out to be, and perhaps reports reaching the United States were somewhat exaggerated.
As we were being told to remain in the area until transportation arrived, I made up my mind to adopt a wait-and-see policy and make no decisions in haste.
I should have spared myself the trouble.
For want of something better to do, I began to explore the terminal area. Around one corner was a sight I shall be a long time remembering. There were several rows of metal caskets, attended by armed sentries, and each carefully draped with the Stars and Stripes.
I did make a decision after all, but in retrospect I don't think it was a hasty one. Americans are dying violently and prematurely in Vietnam.
* * *
THERE are doubtless hundreds of "Saigon Warriors" in reasonably secure areas who sit around writing war stories to the folks back home. (We won't bother to mention some specifics we have personal knowledge of.) But we do know one trooper who pulled the stunt in reverse-and flubbed it.
Shortly after his unit arrived in Vietnam early in 1965, this guy wrote his wife, telling her how safe and secure he was, comfortably ensconced in a base camp behind a formidable perimeter of paratroopers. Less than a week later, UPI sent a radiophoto out of Saigon showing the NCO in the jungle, bearded, bedraggled, and bedecked with ammunition bandoliers and grenades hanging all over him, carrying a wounded comrade.
A "friend" of this character, who worked in a news agency in the same state where the sergeant's wife was living, ran off a print of the photo and thoughtfully delivered it to the complacent wife!
* * *
AN Irish friend of ours, a staff sergeant assigned to the 1st Infantry Division, still hasn't been caught.
He has been in Vietnam for a year and a half, arriving on Saint Patrick's Day 1966, and just extended for another six months. His parents still live in Ireland, and he doesn't want them worried about him.
Recently he received a letter from Galway telling him that mother and dad were so relieved every time they get a letter from him and see that he is still in APO San Francisco and not in Vietnam,
* * *
AS we waited at the 15th Aerial Port in Danang for a ride back to Saigon, a huge jet landed with a load of new arrivals from the States. As the bewildered passengers deplaned we heard one young private, still in winter uniform, turn to his buddy and say: "Just think, Jake, only 364 more days to go."
* * *
LIEUTENANT (junior grade) Berry Wood was a Skyhawk attack bomber pilot aboard the Seventh Fleet carrier U.S.S. Oriskany operating in the Tonkin Gulf during the summer of 1967. He flew many missions against the enemy, and distinguished himself in the air war on more than one occasion.
He was assigned to our office for a month as a liaison officer, and we were on hand to meet him when he arrived at Tan Son Nhut. We noticed that he was uneasy in the new and unfamiliar surroundings, so we did what we could to allay his apprehensions.
"First trip into Vietnam on the ground?" we inquired lightly.
"No," said the lieutenant matter-of-factly, "I've been in-country twice before."
He still seemed nervous and we wondered why. Several days later, his boss told us that this was, in fact, Mr. Wood's first trip to South Vietnam.
We were still trying to figure out why the flier had told us it was his third trip when the commander added: "Lieutenant Wood was shot down, forced to eject, and rescued twice ... in North Vietnam."
* * *
CONVERSATION overheard between a pair of Boonie Rats on a Nha Trang street comer as a Vietnamese peddler passed by:
"Imagine that. Two thousand years of progress and they've learned to pick up one grain of rice with two sticks, and two buckets of shit with one."
AIR FORCE Tech Sergeant Eddie Warren had a problem. There was something about the Vietnam climate that didn't agree with his ears. It seems they were always becoming clogged due to an excess accumulation of wax, and appreciably cutting down his hearing ability; an occurrence which medical people have told us is not uncommon among Americans in this part of the world. As a result of this abnormality, Eddie was an almost daily visitor to the 17th Field Hospital where a dutiful medic was always available to syringe out his ears, apply a little medicine, and send him on his way-until the next time.
We wouldn't recommend this to everyone with a similar ailment, but one day we jokingly suggested to Eddie that he try washing out his ears with Ba Mui Ba beer, a beverage not unknown for its acidic properties.
Well, he did, and he swears that from that day to this, he has never again been troubled by the malady.
* * *
WHILE on a search and destroy operation, the unit we were with came across a huge Viet Cong rice cache. The rice was neatly bagged in burlap and, as we watched, a young trooper took out his knife and cut out a patch from one and put it in his pocket.
"I'm going to send this to the old man to show him where his tax money is going," he said. Emblazoned on the front of each bag was the red, white, and blue emblem of the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID).
But the real incongruity hit us when we took a closer look. Stamped under the emblem was the address from which the rice had been consigned, albeit indirectly and unintentionally, to the Communists: Wall Street, N.Y.
* * *
MISS Cao Thi Bach Tuyet is a very attractive Vietnamese secretary, employed by a U.S. governmental agency in Saigon. She is good natured, well educated, and efficient. Her bilingual capability entitles her to a substantial salary for which she really works hard.
We wondered why then, as we entered her office one day late in September 1967, she was reading an English language book entitled How to Live In Vietnam for Less Than Ten Cents a Day.
* * *
WHEN Prime Minister Nguyen Cao Ky decided to put aside his own political aspirations of becoming president in favor of running as the number two man under Chief of State General Nguyen Van Thieu, it caught most everybody unawares.
Nearly everyone was discussing the current political state of flux in which the government was operating, and Army Major Aaron Harvey was no exception. We talked with him at length on the subject and solicited his opinion on the outcome of the upcoming election.
"Well, far be it from me to prophesy," said the major, "but it appears as if General Thieu has the Ky to success."
* * *
AT times we find it small wonder that there is an alleged credibility gap between the Saigon Press Corps and military information officials in Vietnam.
This gem of ambiguity was lifted from the MACV (Military Assistance Command Vietnam) communique of December 22, 1965":
"A decrease was noted in the number of Viet Cong incidents; however, the intensity of incidents increased."
* * *
AND speaking of the credibility gap, we found this one a bit hard to swallow, too.
During a lull in the fighting midway through 1967, we spotted an operation report from a Seventh Fleet rocket-firing ship which credited the vessel with, in addition to bunkers, gun emplacements, trenches, and cave storage areas, damaging five enemy foxholes.
* * *
AMERICAN servicemen like to name things. They always have, they probably always will. While the majority of names painted on vehicles and weapons have little or no meaning to most, to a few they have a real and profound significance. The title on a Jeep or a gun becomes a personal thing, allowing a group of GIs to identify with it and, in turn, making the christened piece of equipment "one of the boys."
We have seen many names over the years and have yet to see one we didn't like, albeit scores we couldn't understand and fully appreciate. In Vietnam we have seen the "Orient Express," "Chavez' Ravine," "Saigon Tea," "Cheap Charlie," "Hooter-ville Cannonball," "Wetsu" (an acronym for We Eat This Stuff Up), "Puff the Tragic Wagon," "Diablo," "Cong A-Go-Go," "Catch 22," and those named for every girl in the world.
But the one we liked best and could appreciate and enjoy to the fullest was on a Jeep assigned to the 12th Public Information Detachment of the II Field Force at Long Binh: "Credibility. Gap."
* * *
WHEN I had occasion to visit the 4th Infantry Division headquarters, not too far from Pleiku, in July 1967, I took a short cut through one of the division's many motor pools to reach my next port of call and a long overdue chat with an old friend. On the way, I spotted a highly polished two-and-a-half ton truck (particularly unusual for the muddy/dusty terrain of the Vietnamese central plains area), which proudly displayed the name "Moonglow" from her radiator grill. I stopped and asked a youthful specialist four who was laboriously shining a side panel how the vehicle had come by the name.
"Well," he blushed unashamedly, "I spend most of my time behind the wheel of this baby, and "Moonglow" happens to be my wife's and my favorite song."
I thanked him and went on my way feeling somewhat sheepish about the encounter. I was embarrassed. Not for him, but for me. Before I departed, I caught myself winking at the gleaming deuce-and-a-half and giving her an affectionate pat on her starboard front fender.
Heretofore I had always thought of "Moonglow" as being the exclusive property of Eunie and me.
* * *
AFRIEND of Gunnery Sergeant Herb Lang was going on emergency leave and, since his tour was almost up, wouldn't be returning. He bequeathed his "bar" to the gunny.
Herb was telling Army Sergeant Bob Nell about it, and noted that the stock included a tremendous amount of wine.
"Be sure to save the labels," Bob told him.
"Save the labels, what for?"
"I don't know how many it takes," explained Bob, "but when you get enough of them, mail them to the winery and they'll send you a park bench and a stack of old newspapers."
* * *
THERE is beauty in Vietnam. But one must seek it only when he can afford the luxury because time to dwell on such things is very heavily rationed.
The other evening we sat on the roof of our quarters and watched the sun go down. Sipping on a can of tepid Budweiser, we found a simple yet total pleasure in this complete act of God. An exquisite panorama splashed across the Oriental sky for the benefit of no one but us.
Each of us reflected individually. We watched as day turned to dusk and dusk turned to night. As the crimsons, scarlets, golds, and vermilions turned to indigo, I found a stretch of New England seacoast known only to me. There was a little cove there, tranquil and secluded, with an island in the middle. There was a tiny fishing boat there, too.
Wait! Who dares to invade my cove? What right has he ... But then I realized that the fishing boat belonged to me and everything was all right again. There was a fish jumping in my cove. He hung there, suspended in midair, for the longest time before he disappeared. I think he was a swordfish, but everyone knows that swordfish don't range this far north. Perhaps he just came up to see me. Yes, that must be it. He just came up to see me.
Atop a distant crag was perched a lighthouse; winking at me and warning others away. I felt quite secure.
When the indigos turned to blacks, and my cove, island, and fishing boat began to fade, as all such things are wont to do, my lighthouse remained ... winking at me. As I began the long journey back to Vietnam, I soon realized that my lighthouse was nothing more than lightning flashes on the horizon, trumpeting the approach of the monsoons.
Hold it a minute! There is a pattern to the flashes ... a rhythm, if you will. Then I knew. My lighthouse was really the muzzle-flash from a One-Five-Five ... vomiting death in Charlie's face.
* * *
OVER a couple of beers in the enlisted club at the MACV compound in Pleiku, we struck up a conversation with a crusty old sergeant major.
Although he said he had only been in-country a few weeks, his knowledge of highlands geography led us to ask if perhaps this wasn't his second tour in Vietnam.
"Actually," he said, "I have 29 years in the Army now, so I'm pulling two Vietnam tours at once ... my first and my last."
* * *
PETTY OFFICER Jim ("Red") Lowery is a likable chap who likes to think of himself as being frugal. One of his pet peeves is what he considers to be the exorbitant prices one has to pay for meals in the government-operated messes in Vietnam. Normally, this is fifty cents for breakfast and a dollar each for dinner and supper.
To offset this high cost of living, Red subsists a good deal of the time on snack items from the PX, which he purchases in quantity at regular intervals. We grew curious to find out just how much money Red was saving, so we tallied up the cost of a typical noon repast.
| I can selected fancy crab meat | .65 |
| I can Vienna sausages | .25 |
| I can Beenie-Weenies | .25 |
| I can Fritos | .30 |
| I package peanut butter crackers | .05 |
| I can soda pop | .10 |
The total came to $1.60 and, two hours later, Red was hungry again!
* * *
PETER HELLER, one of the briefers at the Joint U.S. Mission Press Center in Saigon, had an assignment on September 30, 1967, that we didn't envy.
To the assembled press corps he announced: "We have a report that power in Saigon will be off for 48 hours beginning sometime this evening."
As he finished, the lights went off.
Only five days earlier, from the same rostrum, Peter had announced that five new diesel generators, provided and installed by USAID, had a capacity to light 400,000 homes and were expected to solve Saigon's electrical power problems.
* * *
PROTEST marchers and draft-card burners may think we don't belong in Vietnam, but we know a lot of people here who take a highly personal view that we do.
One is Pat Cuthbertson, an old soldier by anyone's standards.
Pat entered the Army in 1942 as a teen-ager. As a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne Division, he jumped into Normandy before the dawn of D-Day in 1944. He fought through the hedgerows of France and later jumped into Holland. That winter he was in Bastogne.
During the Korean thing he was in four campaigns, and by the time that one was over, he had earned enough ribbons to embellish the chest of any general.
In 1965 he was among the first ground combat troops to enter Vietnam, arriving in May with the 173rd Airborne. After a few months in the States in 1966, Pat volunteered again and now is with a 1st Infantry Division unit at Phuoc Vinh, a U.S. enclave in the heart of War Zone D.
On July 27, 1967, Charlie hit the Phuoc Vinh base camp for the third straight night. Headquarters reported 14 killed and 70-some wounded from the barrage of 122mm rockets and 82mm mortars.
The first round landed near enough to Pat's tent to blow him off his cot. He started to get up and sprint for a bunker some 20 yards away, then thought better of it and decided to hug the ground where he was. Within seconds, another round landed midway between him and the bunker. He would have run right into it. As it was, shrapnel tore through his tent, his clothing, cot, and mosquito net. He wasn't hit!
We were at Phuoc Vinh just ten days later, when Pat cheerfully announced that he had just extended to serve another six months in Vietnam.
* * *
The preceding piece was written in August 1967; this in October:
PAT went home in a year after all. The next VC rocket attack didn't miss him and he spent four weeks in the hospital at Long Binh.
On his way home he dropped in to say good-by and to tell us about his wound, mentioning casually that it was his fourth Purple Heart. He had taken a chunk of rocket shrapnel high and inside his right thigh, quite close to the groin.
"Did you lose ... er ... is, ah ... I mean..."
"No, I'm okay" Pat said with a grin, "but I'll tell you one thing. It's a damn good thing I was dressed left."
* * *
WE'RE still puzzled by the six Danang stores which display identically worded signs: "Sell Charcoal Store." Since the city is off limits to GIs, what are they trying to sell to whom, the charcoal or the store?
* * *
IHAD worked and lived with sailors before: nearly a month on an assault transport in 1945, and later on the beach with a joint staff at Pearl Harbor.
I was not aware, however, that competition and rivalry between ships are every bit as intense as that between Army divisions until I visited the U.S.S. Coral Sea, which was launching strikes against North Vietnam from Yankee Station in the Tonkin Gulf.
Launch and recovery operations are monitored throughout the ship on closed-circuit television, and I was in one of the pilots' ready rooms watching when an F4 Phantom missed the approach and went around again. It missed the next four as well, twice nearly hitting the water.
On the sixth try, the plane's tail hook caught the arresting cable and the fighter roared to a stop.
The Coral Sea's TV cameraman zoomed in on the plane's fuselage until the whole screen was filled with the words "U.S.S. Constellation."
* * *
THERE are many situations in Vietnam in which combat troops are not allowed to shoot at the enemy, even when fired upon, without permission from higher authority. This is often frustrating, particularly when coupled with a multitude of communication problems, not the least of which is the sometimes total inability to contact the superior whose authority is necessary in order to return the fire.
We were told of an infantry platoon of the 1st Cavalry Division which was being harassed by snipers and sporadic mortar fire near An Khe. After a little reconnoitering, the enemy positions were pinpointed and permission was requested to return the fire. The platoon was told to wait, and that it would be several minutes before the necessary approval could be secured. Meanwhile, the enemy fire was increasing in intensity and accuracy, and the troops were getting edgy. Still there was no approval to return the fire.
The platoon leader, a combat-seasoned first lieutenant, was growing impatient, as was his platoon sergeant.
"What would happen, Lieutenant," asked the sergeant in a manner more calculating than inquiring, "if we didn't have the damn radio, or if something happened to it?"
"I guess," said the lieutenant, "I'd have to act independently and use my own judgment."
The NCO nodded silently, then crawled quickly away to where the radio operator was listening intently. There was an ear-splitting crash and, in a few moments, the sergeant inched his way back to where the lieutenant was dug in.
"Sir, I am sorry to report that the radio is out of commission," said the sergeant.
"Very well, tell the men to go ahead and return the fire," said the straight-faced platoon leader. "By the way, what happened to the radio?"
"I'm not sure, sir," replied the equally straight-faced noncom, "but I think one of the fallopian tubes went out."
* * *
THE dense vegetation along South Vietnam's western borders provides excellent cover for Communist cadres infiltrating into the Republic. In order to make border crossings more difficult for the enemy, the Air Force has organized several units whose mission is the chemical defoliation of large tracts of wilderness. Without the heavy jungle for protection, aerial spotting of the enemy has become considerably easier.
The motto of one of these outfits, the 12th Air Commando Squadron at Bien Hoa, is "Only You Can Prevent Forests."
* * *
IF you've ever wondered what kind of men fight America's wars, maybe I can help you. Nice Guys fight America's wars, and Nice Guys don't always finish last.
Take for example the case of Staff Sergeant Robert Borja, the mess steward for the 6th Battalion, 29th Artillery, 4th Infantry Division. Bob was tending his fires shortly before supper one evening at his unit's base camp near Pleiku, when an infantry company trudged wearily in from the field. They had been in the boonies for more than three months, had eaten nothing but C-rations during that time, and had suffered nearly every imaginable hardship of war. Their company commander had been killed in a stiff fire-fight the day before, and several of their number were walking wounded. Despite all this, it wasn't long before the infantrymen got a whiff of Sergeant Borja's more than excellent chow.
In a low, almost apologetic voice, the acting CO asked if it would be possible for Sergeant Borja to feed the company. Bob looked at the hopeful faces of the bedraggled troopers and his reply to the query was nothing more nor less than his unit's motto: "Can Do."
He dug out some steaks−put aside for some more auspicious occasion, lit off some charcoal, and served piping hot meals to a company of men who had all but forgotten how good food could taste. To the modest Sergeant Borja, the gratitude of these men was embarrassing.
After supper, the infantry first sergeant asked Bob if he needed any help, and Bob allowed as how he could use two or three KPs to help clean up. A formation was called and Alpha Company, 3rd Battalion, 8th Infantry, assembled outside the mess tent to hear the First Shirt ask for KP volunteers. All 120 men of the company raised their hands, officers and NCOs included!
* * *
BEFORE we leave the 6th of the 29th, we'd like to tell you something else about the amazing bunch of guys who make up this crackerjack outfit. The artillery battalion was commanded by Lieutenant Colonel El Nettles, a fine soldier who we have known and respected for many years and, by anybody's standards, a great guy.
In July 1967, their base camp was a place called Jackson Hole, not more than a score of clicks from Pleiku, and named by the men of the 4th Infantry Division in honor of the First Brigade commander, Colonel Charles A. Jackson.
By tactical necessity, the camp was situated in the middle of a Vietnamese cemetery, long left unattended and uncared for. Most of the markers had been damaged, destroyed, or removed entirely, and the graves themselves had all but disappeared amidst a wide assortment of weeds and elephant grass.
When the 6/29th moved in to set up camp, the men of the battalion used what little leisure time they had to beautify the site. It was through this process that the ancient graves were uncovered. Rather than destroy the sites entirely, the artillery-men set about a restoration program, repairing the stones, cutting and trimming the vegetation, and fencing in the plots. Within a few months, the job was finished, even to the erection of wooden crosses, carefully painted white, where there had been no markers before.
* * *
WHEN the 6th Battalion, 29th Artillery was at Tuy Hoa, the guys used to like to sing this one to the tune of "Banks of the Wabash":
When the lice are in the rice along the Mekong,
and Ol' Charlie's in there shooting out at you.
You can bet your ass I won't be there beside you,
I'll be shacking with your co in old Pleiku.
* * *
THIS sign was posted prominently in the photo lab of Commander Naval Forces Vietnam.
NOBODY IS PERFECT
Every man is a mixture of good qualities and perhaps some not-so-good qualities. In considering our fellow man, we should remember his good qualities and realize that his faults only prove that, after all, he is a human being. We should refrain from making harsh judgments of a person just because he happens to be a dirty, rotten, miserable, no-good, sonofabitch. ·
* * *
WHEN I met "Doc" Levy he was a private first class, a medic and a good one. Seemingly fearless under fire, he was also kind and compassionate with the ever increasing number of wounded he was called upon to treat.
Over 200 pounds before the swelter of Vietnam slimmed him down, he was jut-jawed and pug-nosed, looking more like a displaced Irish hod-carrier than the Jew he was. He was paired in Charlie company with another medic, a Negro, with whom he kept up a continual, not always good natured, exchange about their ethnic origins. They made a great team.
Soon after his unit began to see action, Levy started calling the numbers. "Joe is going to get zapped today," he'd say, and he was uncannily accurate. Joe would get zapped.
In August 1965, "Doc" Levy looked me straight in the eye and blandly announced that he would never get home to New York. His number, he said, was coming up.
For five months afterward he lived down his own premonition, though he risked his life daily to reach and treat the wounded on the battlefield.
In January 1966, in the Plain of Reeds near the Oriental River, "Doc" Levy's number finally came up.
* * *
THERE is a restaurant in Cholon called "My Chow."
* * *
WHEN we walked into the U.S. Mission Press Center looking for a sailor friend, we bumped into Air Force Major Lew Raines and inquired of our buddy's whereabouts.
"If you're looking for the Navy," said the major, "why don't you try the ocean?"
We were more than a little miffed at what we thought was curt sarcasm until we remembered that the "Ocean" is a beer joint directly across the street. Our buddy was there.
* * *
WHEN a unit of the 1st Infantry Division came under a night mortar attack at Phuoc Vinh in July 1967, a Chaplain (who must go nameless) clad only in his skivvies, ran into a sandbagged bunker, heaved a big sigh of relief, and blurted out: "Goddamn, that was close."
* * *
WHEN Newark News correspondent Vince Slavin finished a stint at covering the war, he was promised a rousing send-off by some of his many military friends in Saigon.
After checking in at the air terminal (which was badly damaged by a bombing in 1965), Vince and company returned to the parking lot, slid into the back seat of their sedan and proceeded to open a bottle of champagne. The dozing Vietnamese chauffeur didn't appear to notice their return.
When the cork left the bottle with a resounding "pop," Vince hollered "VC" ... and the driver dove through the open window to a neat belly-flop onto the pavement outside.
* * *
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER jim Hill was a Navy flyer aboard the attack carrier U.S.S. Coral Sea out in the Tonkin Gulf. When we spent a couple of days aboard his ship in the fall of 1967 we had many pleasant conversations with him and, as could be expected, much of the talk centered around the war, its consequences and probable solutions.
When he learned that we were permanently based in Vietnam his interest grew and he asked us about the liberty in Saigon. Was there any, was it any good, and were the Vietnamese girls really as pretty as everyone said? We answered in the affirmative to all counts and hastened to add that so long as a guy was careful and took no unnecessary risks he could have a pretty good time. We told him that despite its reputation for being a secure area, what with terrorists and all, Saigon was still a potentially dangerous and highly volatile city.
He became thoughtful for a moment, then said: "Well, a satchel charge tossed into a crowded night club isn't exactly my idea of a big blowout."
* * *
AFIRST SERGEANT friend of ours was making a courier run to Okinawa where, he knew, some of our hold baggage was stored. He asked if he could bring us anything back with him when he returned.
"If you can get into my luggage," I said, "bring my thesaurus."
"If I can't," the topkick said, "I have one you can use."
After he left, Jim Ryan, who was present, looked thoughtful for a moment, then said: "Gee, but it's refreshing to meet a first sergeant who doesn't think a thesaurus is a prehistoric animal."
* * *
IN-COUNTRY travel in Vietnam is always problematical. Most areas outside metropolitan Saigon are accessible only by air or armed convoy, and space by either means is always at a premium. Generally speaking, it's the resourceful guy who makes out.
A newly arrived free-lance correspondent was trying to figure out a way to get to Phu Vinh in the Mekong Delta, and had asked the advice of a wisened old staff sergeant, then on his third voluntary Vietnam tour.
"Well now," drawled the NCO thoughtfully, "I don't rightly know what's the best way to get to Phu Vinh, seeing as how I ain't never been there afore. Howsomever, if I was goin' down there I'd be lookin' for the safest way. I'd go on out to the PX storage area on Plantation Road and bum me a ride down on a beer truck. Them guys may get careless with the chow and the ammo, but they ain't never gonna let no thin' happen to that beer."
* * *
FOR centuries traditional Vietnamese dress has called for the wearing of a non, a cone-shaped hat similar to those worn by Chinese coolies and usually made of straw, reeds, or bamboo. It is light and certainly utilitarian, protecting the wearer's face from the hot tropical sun.
But like all porous materials, the non grows heavy when wet and the monsoons only add to the problem.
Folks in Vietnam today still wear the non and the hats are still made from the same substances, but the problem of water-logging seems to have been solved nicely−with the help of American-made Saran Wrap.
* * *
WHILE Lieutenant Colonel Roy Thompson was head of the Saigon bureau of Pacific Stars & Stripes, he had a running feud going with a certain Marine colonel in I Corps who had barred Stripes reporters from his area and denied them the use of all press facilities under his control.
Colonel Thompson placed an 8" x 10" photograph of the belligerent colonel on the wall of his Saigon office with the legend: "Know Your Enemy!"
* * *
THEY say there's one born every minute and USARV (United States Army Vietnam) American Red Cross Field Director Jerry Preston and his assistant, Ron Colizzo, fit nicely into that category.
On a business trip to Saigon from their headquarters at Long Binh, they spotted an animal in a cage which resembled a miniature jaguar and, upon inquiry, were told it was an ocelot. Further discussion disclosed that ocelots make excellent pets but take a bit of getting used to by owner and animal alike. By this time both men had become fascinated with the prospect of owning the ocelot and negotiations began in earnest. Finally the owner reluctantly agreed to sell his pet for 900 piasters, but only because he "needed the money to feed his large family." He dutifully warmed Jerry and Ron not to handle the animal for a few days until he got used to them, and then to do so only with great caution. They agreed, and hurried back to Long Binh with their new charge, convinced they had scored a major buying coup.
That afternoon a young trooper happened by, looked at the ocelot with curiosity, then opened the cage and began gently to stroke the animal's fur.
"Better not do that, soldier," warned Jerry, "He hasn't been tamed yet and he might turn vicious without warning."
"Oh," said the GI, extracting his hand and carefully closing the cage. Just as he was staring at the splotches of yellow and black paint smeared on the palm of his hand, the "ocelot" went "meow."
* * *
THE participant, place, and even the service will have to go unnamed in this story.
It seems there was an eternal water shortage at a certain command post installation in the field, and many of the troops had gone without showers for some time. After doing a few favors for one of the NCOs there, we were invited to his hootch for a welcome shower.
"How come you have water?" we asked.
"I only run out of water when the general does," he answered. "You might say," he added with a wink, "that we're on the same party line."
* * *
AVETERAN first sergeant, serving with an aviation unit in the Mekong Delta, claims that the only difference between his outfit and the Boy Scouts is that the Boy Scouts have adult supervision!
* * *
THERE are some truly amazing contrasts in Vietnam, and one of our favorites is the contradiction of dress and tools employed by two groups of people on and around an open expanse of land outside Saigon.
Ringed by gun towers and bunkers manned by well-armed security troops is the Tan Son Nhut golf course.
* * *
WEBSTER defines "ambush" as "a trap in which concealed persons lie in wait to attack by surprise."
This definition has been bent somewhat by a few commanders in Vietnam. The word bears the stigma of disastrous defeats of the French and ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) by Viet Minh and Viet Cong respectively, and the mere sight or sound of the word can put some officers into orbit.
In late 1965, there was an action in the Iron Triangle, in which a company of U.S. infantrymen was decimated. As they marched down a trail, the Viet Cong detonated two 750-pound bombs as mines, one at the head of the column and one at its rear. Hidden VC then poured devastating automatic weapons fire from the sides of the trail. The unit reacted aggressively and admirably, breaking the ambush, and a sister company helped trap the enemy force, and wiped it out. Nevertheless, there was no mention of "ambush" in the unit's operational report. It was labeled an "engagement."
Unfortunately, no one told the public information officer, who released a story quoting one of the company's wounded as saying, "When the VC triggered the ambush..."
Several days later, the brigade exec locked the heels of the PIO.
"Goddamn it, that was an engagement, not an ambush," he screamed. "Do you know what an ambush is?"
"Well, I know what Webster calls it, sir," the PIO replied.
"Goddamn it, if the general says it's an engagement, it's an engagement, no matter what Webster says."
After a 40-minute tirade, the PIO sighed with relief as the XO stormed out of the tent. A passer-by, who just happened to be the brigade's chief operations sergeant, looked sympathetically in.
"What was that all about?" he asked.
"Oh, the old man didn't like a release we made on some action Sunday in the Triangle."
"You mean when Bravo Company got ambushed?"
* * *
LEATHERNECKS also have their anxious moments when it comes to the proper selection of a word or phrase destined to appear in a news release, especially if the subject matter deals with hostile action involving unorthodox tactics. "Ambush" is considered a delicate word, and one not to be bandied about without a good deal of thought.
One night a Marine patrol was "surprised" by a Viet Cong force just south of the DMZ which resulted in the wounding of four members of the patrol ... A young lance corporal, assigned to the Dong Ha information office, was directed to prepare a release outlining the "engagement."
Immediately following the dateline, the corporal wrote: "An element of this U.S. Marine force was ambushed last night by a Viet Cong force of unknown size six miles below the demilitarized zone ..."
When he had finished, the corporal took the proposed release to the Information Supervisor, a tough old master sergeant of not inconsiderable experience, who promptly launched a tirade against the writer.
"Damn it," screamed the Super, "Marines don't get ambushed! They are never, never caught unawares. Now take it back and rewrite it, but make sure you leave out the word 'ambush.' It just doesn't happen to Marines."
Crestfallen, but wiser for the encounter, the corporal returned to his typewriter to redo the story. After a few minutes, the old sarge inquired into the status of the story and, assured that "ambush" had been deleted from the material, told the corporal to go ahead and put it on stencil and have it run off. The corporal did.
It was not until the following morning, long after the finished release had been distributed to members of the press, that the sergeant picked up a copy of the story and began to read.
He was apoplectic before he finished the lead:
"An element of this U.S. Marine force was drygulched last night..."
* * *
DR. Charles Moskos, Ph.D., is a Professor of Sociology who prefers "Charlie" to "Doctor" and speaks the language of the GI with fluency and ease. He used to be one.
In 1965 he undertook a study of Army enlisted men that carried him around the world. When we met him in Vietnam he told us that of all the units he had visited, the language used by us, to put it gently, was the least genteel.
Browsing around the hootch, he picked up several books, asking who was reading this and who that (most of it was pretty heavy stuff).
"Why?" three of us asked simultaneously.
"Well, no reason, I guess. It's just that your literary tastes have absolutely no relationship to your vocabularies."
* * *
PETTY OFFICER Frank Rost was assigned to the staff of Task Force 77 in the Tonkin Gulf when he joined us in-country for a week of briefings and indoctrination. Like many Navymen, Frank had decided to fulfill his military obligation immediately upon graduation from college in order to pursue his chosen profession without interruption later on.
During a bull session one night we asked him why he hadn't applied for Officers Candidate School instead of remaining in the enlisted ranks for four years.
"Well, I thought about becoming an officer right off the bat," he told us, "and I plan to go to OCS sometime next year. But I'd rather work for a while first."
