Читать книгу The Big Buddha Bicycle Race - Terence A. Harkin - Страница 11

January–April 1970

Mexico

I hadn’t gone crazy yet when I first went out to California, although I sometimes fear my madness started the day I was born. Sure, I’d been thrown out of the Pentagon. Something about my involvement with the GI contingent that walked at the head of a 250,000-person anti-war march on Washington called the Second Vietnam Moratorium. It might have cost me an automatic promotion from airman first class to sergeant, but it had been part of a plan. It got me assigned at last where my recruiter had guaranteed I’d be assigned all along—the 1361st Photo Squadron at Norton Air Force Base, California, headquarters of the Aerospace Audio-Visual Service, acronym AAVS (and pronounced “AVIS” in Air Force speak).

A year earlier I had been teaching English to Portuguese immigrants at a high school in Bristol, Rhode Island. It kept me out of the draft, but I was miserable. I could have blamed the fact I had no textbooks. Or I could have blamed my students—the boys had barely avoided being sent off to fight colonial wars in Angola and Mozambique only to discover when they got to America that they would be drafted to fight in Vietnam if they learned English. In the end, though, I had to blame myself—a dedicated career teacher or even a dedicated draft dodger would have made it work. Instead, my heart was three thousand miles away. I had been accepted for a master’s program in film production at the University of Southern California. I was ready to go, except Congress changed the rules for the Class of ’68 and eliminated draft deferments for grad school. Some of my friends talked bravely about Canada and Sweden, and I gave it some thought, but I couldn’t help noticing that none of them left. The head of the AV department at Bristol High had been a Marine cameraman in Korea. When he got wind of my story, he suggested I pay a visit to an Air Force recruiter he knew—Tech Sergeant Gallipeau.

Gallipeau seemed harmless enough, with a Pillsbury Doughboy body stuffed into his dress blues and a crooked grin that reminded me ever so slightly of Gomer Pyle’s. He enticed me into giving up my teaching gig by promising with great sincerity that I would be spending four years with a motion picture unit an hour from L.A. The son of a bitch had lied, of course. Thanks to something in the fine print about “Needs of the Air Force,” I ended up in a converted broom closet in Washington, DC, cranking out certificates of graduation for each and every attendee of DODCOCS, a semi-boondoggle Department of Defense computer school for field-grade officers. Thanks to its prototype 1937 Xerox machine, I got to singe my fingers in a pint-sized oven, baking the toner on each and every diploma. I shared one other job at DODCOCS with two fellow low-level enlisted men—keeping the massive urns in the officers’ lounge filled with enough coffee to make sure the majors and colonels didn’t snore during the lectures. I never wanted to see or smell coffee grounds again.

The experience was suffocating—pasting on a phony smile day after day for the powerful, blindly ambitious careerists who surrounded me. At the same time, my mind was being buffeted by what I could only describe as powerful forces of history. It was the summer of 1969 and Richard Milhous Nixon occupied the Oval Office. He promised in June to start bringing troops home, but more than two hundred a week were still coming home in body bags. Even more unsettling, stories started appearing in the GI underground press about an Army lieutenant named Calley being charged with the massacre of hundreds of unarmed women, children and old men in an obscure hamlet called My Lai.

I had never been able to sort out exactly what I believed about the war as a college student, even after the Tet Offensive in January of ’68 showed that the Johnson administration had been dead wrong about there being “light at the end of the tunnel.” In the spring of ’68 we learned at campus teachins how General Navarre, the French commander in Vietnam, had said exactly the same thing in 1950—four years before the Vietnamese crushed the Foreign Legion at Dien Bien Phu. As a college senior, however, large anti-war protests had left me cold. I had been put off by fellow students who came across as spoiled rich kids who couldn’t be bothered with the sacrifices our fathers had taken for granted during World War II. I was downright disgusted when these same children of privilege turned into angry mobs shouting nursery rhyme chants like “Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh, the Viet Cong are gonna win.” Now though, I was being sucked into the anti-war movement by fellow servicemen who found My Lai repugnant and by returning combat veterans who were fed up with the senselessness of the whole enterprise, a quagmire that by June had cost 35,000 American lives. I tried to discuss the situation with my father that summer, but when you begin your aviation career as a World War II flight instructor, you don’t question authority any more than you want your own authority questioned. It was right about then that we stopped talking.

DODCOCS was supposed to be a plum joint-command assignment, but I was just as miserable as when I left Rhode Island. All I had accomplished was trading bedlam for solitary confinement, and I was still three thousand miles from California. Major Elton Toliver III, our Marine personnel officer, sported a throw-back old-school flat-top haircut like my dad used to wear. It reminded me so much of a miniature aircraft carrier that I half-expected to see little fighter-bombers taking off whenever I ran into him, which was often. He seemed to enjoy calling me into his office and telling me with a smirk how poorly I was fitting in, never missing a chance to point out infractions only visible to a gung-ho career military man—a mustache hair that had grown an eighth of an inch too long or a runaway sideburn that decided to graze my ear. My freshly shined shoes never seemed to make it to work without getting scuffed, and my belt buckle was forever wanting to slip out of alignment. Colonel Manketude, the Air Force liaison officer, started checking up on me too and was soon harrumphing at the pictures of Woodstock hanging on my broom-closet bulletin board and harrumphing again when he found a GI underground newspaper lying on my desk. A few weeks later he went positively apoplectic when I turned down a slot as a navigator/bombardier at OTS (Air Force shorthand for Officer Training School), pretty much echoing my father’s sentiments about wasting a good education when I could be earning my wings.

What Manketude, Toliver and my father failed to understand was that freshly minted navigator/bombardiers were not being assigned to the Aerospace Audio Visual Service. Toliver, a third-generation Yale graduate, seemed to take it personally that a fellow Ivy Leaguer would turn down a commission, which in turn seemed to deepen his irritation at my wispy mustache and the Air Force regulation that permitted me to raise one without his permission. A couple of mellower lifers down in the print shop took me under their wing and clued me in that the real Air Force wasn’t all spit-and-polish and square-your-corners like Headquarters Command. I should go for it, they said, if what I really wanted was to be assigned to a photo outfit. And if it meant risking deployment to Southeast Asia, so be it, I figured, so great was my fear of going brain dead at DODCOCS. The only catch was that I had no idea how to “go for it.” I was depressed as hell until it dawned on me that I was just a stone’s throw from the office of Ted Kennedy’s Air Force caseworker. I was thrilled to hear back from Mrs. Riley that they were looking into my situation, but that didn’t keep things from getting dicey.

It was in mid-November, on the Monday morning following the Second Vietnam Moratorium, that Toliver totally blew his stack, stopping in his tracks when he saw me in the hall. “Airman Leary—what the fuck are you doing wearing a black armband?”

“It’s in memory of American soldiers killed in Vietnam, sir. Forty thousand so far. Ten thousand this year alone.”

“Report to my office in one hour.”

And when I did, he and Manketude were waiting for me. “I’ve done two fucking tours over there in case you forgot. And I’d rather be killing an eight-year-old gook kid in Vietnam than having to protect my own son from a bunch of Commies landing on the shores of California or Connecticut.”

I wondered what Vietnamese naval genius Toliver knew about who could lead a fleet of sampans across the Pacific. Before I could ask, however, Manketude stepped in. “You’ve made another big mistake, Leary. You’re finished here.”

And with that he handed me a set of orders that bounced me out the front door of DODCOCS and on across the Potomac to the Pentagon itself for a temporary duty assignment (how did the Air Force come up with the acronym TDY?) at Headquarters Squadron, USAF. While the brass figured out what to do with me, Lieutenant Colonel Wippazetti put me to work painting nail heads visible only to him in the veneer paneling of his temporary office. “The reflections hurt my eyes,” he said. And then, miraculously, Senator Kennedy’s office got word that AAVS was shorthanded. Mrs. Riley made a couple of phone calls and suddenly my life jumped back on track, kind of like the movie Easy Rider—only in reverse, with a happy ending—as I headed off across the country, taking the southern route by way of New Orleans and Mardi Gras. Chuck Berry danced in my head singing “Route 66” as I headed out of Austin towards Amarillo, Texas; Gallup, New Mexico; and—on the home stretch for California—Flagstaff, Arizona. Driving my red ’64 VW down Interstate 15, winding my way through the Cajon Pass and on into San Bernardino, I felt sane and brilliant. I had crept out of D.C. in an ice storm—and now it was palm trees in February.

At Norton Air Force Base I remained hallucination-free even when we smoked the very fine Laotian dope Woody Shahbazian had brought back from Danang Air Base, Republic of Vietnam. It was early in 1970, and we were certain it was the world that was coming unglued, not our minds. The U.S. had metastasized into a giant dysfunctional family, full of barely controlled chaos, ruled with as much terror and amnesia and charm as Dad and Grandpa Leary had employed to mold our own clan into their image of what a proper Irish-American family should look like. I wasn’t crazy, just inquisitive. With a bad habit of trying to ferret out the truth from only the flimsiest of evidence—about Grandpa Leary’s drinking and Grandma Shepler’s “nervous breakdowns” and about why the U.S. government was really sending us to Vietnam. Wanting to be seen and heard was a bad habit when you were a Leary child or an Air Force enlisted man.

No question about it, I was still a bit touchy when I landed in California. Five years going on ten of bad mood. The Revolution was coming, and I hadn’t wanted to be caught dead with the squares in D.C. who were going to be standing trial in front of Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman. Deep down inside, though, under my olive-drab fatigues, I was more a Flower Child than a revolutionary. A rock drummer since high school, I wanted to take my band, Stonehenge Circus, to India to find a guru of our own and a good electric-sitar player. With the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, I no longer had to be embarrassed by my secret passion to save the world nor tortured by my aching dream of being made love to by a harem of California poster girls. I no longer had to be trapped by the battle that had raged for years deep in my soul between the nuns at Holy Family and the centerfolds in Playboy magazine. In the Age of Peace and Love, I no longer feared Grandpa Leary’s drunken tirades. Our main fear as GIs was that the Age of Aquarius would be over by the time we were given our discharge papers.

In the meantime, we tried to be as hip as possible while sporting GI buzz cuts, searching out other hipsters in the ranks who were testing the regs by wearing John Lennon-style granny glasses, prescription sunglasses, wristbands, mustaches, long sideburns, or long hair slicked down with Groom and Clean. At Norton, I soon discovered that mixed in with the GI hipsters were musicians like Sonny Stevens and Woody Shahbazian. Stevens sported long sideburns and hid his long slick hair under his fatigue cap, day and night, indoors and out. Shahbazian, with the nonchalance of a soldier of fortune, did a full-court press on the regs with sideburns bordering on muttonchops, a bushy mustache, and long, styled hair that he hated to mess up wearing regulation headgear. He did wear regulation aviator sunglasses—despite not being an aviator—and got by on a single contact lens, always managing to misplace the other. His leather wristband commanded a lot of respect from his fellow enlisted men, wearing it as he did in honor of his hootch-mates at Danang who had died from a lucky shot with a shoulder-mounted rocket that had hit his quarters while he was off shaving or shitting, the details changing to fit his audience.

We pursued the hippie lifestyle as best we could by jamming in our barracks and later at the base theater, which finally led to a paying gig at Sarge’s, the biker bar across the street from the east gate. At Sarge’s, from my perspective behind the drums on the bandstand, I noticed several of the young AAVS production officers pursuing the hipster lifestyle themselves once they were off base and out of uniform. Two in particular stood out—Lieutenant Lisa Sherry and Lieutenant Rick Liscomb. She was statuesque with olive skin and deep, piercing eyes. He was a light-skinned black man, built like a linebacker, with a warm smile and a bone-crushing handshake. It was hard to tell at first if they were an interracial couple keeping it low-key or just good friends. It turned out that they had been both. She was the daughter of a French farm girl and an American fighter pilot who abandoned them soon after they got to the States, leaving her mother distraught and leaving Lisa to eventually scrape her way through the University of Maryland on scholarship. Liscomb had grown up in a comfortable middle-class section of Washington, DC, the son of the principal of a private school for children of diplomats. He had been one of the first black graduates of the Air Force Academy, where we found it easy to believe he had once been the light-heavyweight boxing champion.

Norton Air Force Base turned out to be my first assignment where they actually had airplanes. The flying part of the base was run by the Military Airlift Command (MAC) and was busy seven days a week operating a steady stream of flights full of troops and supplies headed for Vietnam. Every C-141 long-range transport in the MAC inventory was flying, and they still needed to bring in charters from Braniff, Continental, TWA and Seaboard World. Our third of the base was converted from what had recently been a Strategic Air Command operation assembling and storing intercontinental ballistic missiles. When the Pentagon assigned AAVS primary responsibility for documenting the war in Southeast Asia, the 1361st quickly became a major source of television news footage seen by the American public and the main source of briefing films shown to the Congressional Armed Services Committees responsible for funding the war. They also did plenty of in-house Air Force training films, Air Force Now! (the movie newsmagazine shown at monthly commanders’ calls worldwide), and a vast amount of still photography. Now that AAVS had consolidated its operations from Orlando, Florida; Wright-Patterson, Ohio; and Lookout Mountain in the Hollywood Hills, its labs were processing more feet of film a day than any movie studio in the world.

I was assigned to the editorial department, with a wisecracking young film editor named Larry Zelinsky as my immediate supervisor. Once he showed me how to thread up a Moviola, I was on my own. The 16mm synchronizer, viewer and splicer were pretty much the same as the 8mm equipment I had used at the Rhode Island School of Design. I felt lucky then that an English major from Brown was able to take film classes next door at RISD. I felt even luckier now to find myself in a spanking-new editing room as spacious and comfortable as anything in Hollywood.

Shahbazian talked me and Tom Wheeler, one of the unit clerk-typists, into going in with him on a mountain chalet in a pine forest high above San Berdoo. First Sergeant Link—“Missing Link,” Zelinsky used to call him—was the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge of all enlisted men in the 1361st. He split a gut when he found out we weren’t stuck in the drafty barracks on base with the rest of the guys, but Shahbazian was a retired colonel’s son and knew Link couldn’t make us move back. Link blamed me, figuring as a college graduate I had to have been the brains behind the operation, but in those days I laughed it off, foolishly assuming his glowers were harmless. No one else seemed to mind, however, and soon hipster enlisted men and hipster officers were dropping by regularly, especially on the weekends. Liscomb was learning to play the guitar and was into Peter, Paul and Mary at the time. Woody wasn’t a whole lot better on his acoustic guitar, but we enjoyed the change of pace singing folk songs after the din of the blues and Southern rock we were churning out at Sarge’s. Somehow the lovely Lieutenant Sherry—Lisa when we were alone—began fraternizing with me after hours, volunteering to help me pack up my drums at Sarge’s at the end of the evening and get them home safely. Woody, a firm believer in fraternizing with female officers, gave me his seal of approval, breaking into his Hank Williams imitation and singing, “If you’ve got the money, honey, I’ve got the time,” whenever he saw me around the cabin.

Lieutenant Sherry might have been a little out of her mind dating an enlisted man, but I was sure my brain was firing on all cylinders when she let me take the wheel of her dazzling white MG convertible and we crossed the border into Mexico for the first time. Maybe we couldn’t get to Woodstock, but we could enjoy this little caesura of pleasure and apparent sanity by camping out on a deserted beach on the Gulf of California. It was March, the end of the California rainy season. The rains had been kind that year, and the dusty chaparral and mesquite that covered the hills running south from San Bernardino and Escondido into Baja California had transformed into an emerald veil dotted with poppies, lupine and larkspur in full bloom. We sought out a simple fishing village she had heard of on the mainland side of the Gulf called Puerto Peñasco where we could sleep on the beach under the stars and where the food and drink in the nearby cantinas was plentiful and cheap. I was completely new to sleeping under the stars—the Boy Scouts had always used tents—but after quenching our thirst with cold, dark Mexican beer it seemed to work out fine.

Drinking some more of that cold, dark beer with dinner the following night, the kind WAF lieutenant expounded for me on her theories of free love and open marriage. After a few beers of my own, her logic seemed incontrovertible—in the Age of Aquarius, two people could care about each other deeply without chaining each other down. It didn’t bother me at all that an old captain friend from Tan Son Nhut would be coming in TDY in the next few days. Our relationship was going to be chain-free.

Shahbazian had been worried that I had run off to get married that weekend, but any thoughts I might have had of marriage, open or otherwise, vaporized in the hot San Bernardino sun. I didn’t hear a word from Lisa the entire week her captain was in town. The cabin seemed empty when I got home from work, and sitting alone out on the deck, I polished off two bottles of bootleg Tequila, one shot at a time, licking the salt off the back of my hand and biting down hard on the lemon chaser. And then the icing on the cake: I was diagnosed with non-specific urethritis. The doctors were concerned it might be one of the nasty new strains coming out of Vietnam, so they shot me full of antibiotics and ordered me to stay off sex and booze for a month. I spent much of my convalescence in a melancholy mood, nursing a broken heart while deprived of alcohol, a substance more precious to the Leary bloodline than oxygen. For four weekends at Sarge’s I flailed dutifully at my drums, the only person in the joint who was sober. I swore off women for life and then drove myself crazy watching a parade of tanned San Bernardino townies in tank tops undulating before me on the dance floor. Liscomb sat down next to me at the bar one night while I was on break and noticed that I was sipping a ginger ale. “What’s this, Brendan? You aren’t in training, are you?”

“I’m afraid I’ve been burned by our friend, Lieutenant Sherry.”

“Lieutenant Sherry,” he smiled. “She’s great as a friend, even better as a drinking buddy, but when we tried to get serious once upon a time I just couldn’t get used to her ideas about free love. Sounded good on paper, but the first time her old captain friend came in TDY from Tan Son Nhut, she had me crawling the walls. Our apartments at the Bachelor Officer Quarters are right across the hall from each other.”

“Ah yes, her captain from Tan Son Nhut. I live up in the mountains and she still had me crawling the walls.”

Before I went back on stage we clinked our glasses nostalgically to Lisa and free love.

Doing on-the-job training as a film editor in the AAVS postproduction department meant Zelinsky had pretty much left me alone to teach myself. I had a hunch work was going to get a lot more interesting when Lieutenant Liscomb asked for me on one of his projects, and, sure enough, he quickly became my favorite production officer, continually coming up with new and crazy ways to make an Air Force documentary while encouraging me to experiment with flashy editing techniques and cut to the beat of the heaviest-metal rock and funkiest funk we could dig up. We drove the civil-service types nuts over in the animation department, throwing new projects at them daily, depriving them of the down time they usually spent counting the hours until they could start collecting their pensions. He brought in a couple of experimental films he did when the Air Force sent him to the University of Rochester, and they turned out to be the only flicks I had ever seen weirder than the stuff my classmates at Rhode Island School of Design used to dream up. The weirdest of all was about a sculptress who had not created anything except genitalia of various shapes and sizes for over two years. Not something we’d be doing for Air Force Now! or for a congressional briefing film.

I had gone out of my way to avoid the big, brawling border towns at Mexicali, Tecate and Tijuana in my travels with Lieutenant Sherry. I had heard too many horror tales about barroom blowjobs and hard-to-imagine debauchery involving smiling young señioritas and their pet donkeys. Naturally, the night I was pronounced cured, Tijuana was precisely where Woody Shahbazian, Tom Wheeler, Frank Lutz and Larry Zelinsky decided to take me, or more precisely, where I would take us since I was the one with the ’64 V-Dub.

It’s unlikely that Shahbazian, a flamboyant Air Force brat, and Zelinsky, a blue-collar wise guy from Detroit, would have ever crossed paths in civilian life, but in the Air Force they shared a powerful unspoken bond—they had already done a tour of Southeast Asia and felt right at home across the border showing us new guys the Third World ropes in case, despite Nixon’s promised troop reductions, we too were shipped out. Zelinsky, in fact, had been so at home during the year he spent in Thailand that he had volunteered to go back so he could marry his Thai girlfriend. As he and Woody predicted, we had a roaring, rowdy good time of it that night, starting out at the Long Bar, Shahbazian’s favorite, spending Yanqui dollars like visiting royalty while he told us about the time on R&R in Hong Kong he’d had a dozen girls sent to his room. “Sounds like love at first sight to me,” said Lutz, the elf-like techie who worked on the dubbing stage recording sound.

We wound up at a back-alley hole-in-the-wall called Hernando’s and decided around midnight that we had better hit the road while we were all accounted for. We had lost Wheeler for an hour until Zelinsky stumbled upon him sitting in a dark corner booth with a small-but-voluptuous young Mexican girl snuggled in his lap, smooching hungrily and sipping from the salty rim of the same margarita glass. We chattered all the way home, lamenting the night’s near misses and bragging about old conquests—real, embellished and imagined—as we rolled down the open highway. Everyone, that is, except Wheeler, who pretended to sleep in the back seat. “Has everybody heard that Wheeler’s in love?” asked Zelinsky. His uniforms may have been rumpled and he may have talked with a flat midwestern twang, but there was a shrewd intelligence behind the Cheshire Cat smile that lit up his pudgy face.

“She’s nice,” protested Tom in those innocent days before he and Zelinsky became my bungalow-mates at Ruam Chon Sawng. He had the look of a blond-haired surfer but was in fact a pioneer pothead from a small town in upstate New York called Wappinger’s Falls. “She’s an orphan and she’s only working the bars in Tijuana to save up for college.”

Zelinsky howled with laughter. “Mom, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Angelina. The entire Pacific Fleet wants to be her best man.”

I had lost count at what might have been my eighth Cuba Libré; as we neared San Bernardino, I found myself wondering if Shahbazian’s Hong Kong story could be true. With his long Joe Namath sideburns and his Grand Prix race-driver mustache, anything was possible with Woody and women. It was two weeks later that he smuggled a pair of Tijuana hookers back to San Bernardino. Dashing and charming, he was waved through customs at the border and the back gate at the base without a hitch. When he was confined to quarters for a month, he told us it was a small price to pay for becoming a genuine war hero and a legend in his own lifetime. When I asked him why he brought them to the barracks instead of up to the mountains, he said, “What do we need hookers for? We’re living in a chalet.” And sure enough, a few days after his release he started dating Kristin, the foxiest civilian secretary working at AAVS headquarters. I wasn’t surprised to learn her family in Palm Springs had money. Shahbazian mentioned to her early on that his mother’s family owned mining interests in Pennsylvania and West Virginia, leaving out the part about going bankrupt.

In the early months of 1970, of course, our only real bond at the 1361st Photo Squadron was a quiet determination to save our collective hides. The white contingent at Headquarters Squadron, Aerospace Audio Visual Service, was pathetically pimply-faced and naïve, which may have explained why the chaplain’s daughter was willing to gang-bang the entire second floor of Barracks 1247. The Bloods weren’t innocent at all, but they weren’t clueing us in, preferring to watch from a distance as the pothead draft dodgers and the beerhead lifers made each other miserable. Rick Liscomb tried to float with both the brothers and the hipsters when we were off duty, which earned him the nickname “Moonbeam” from his fellow blacks. When he stopped eating meat and got into Zen meditation the hipsters picked up on “Moonbeam” too.

Our crowd was a fluke, crawling as it was with white, suburban dropouts; urban, upwardly mobile soul brothers; and hip, young officers who figured we could hide out in the safety of photo labs, sound stages and editing rooms in San Bernardino until the U.S. and the Vietnamese came to their senses. Nixon’s Vietnamization program meant bringing home American ground troops and turning the fighting and dying over to the ARVN—the Army of the Republic of Vietnam. Even if a few of us might still be sent over to Southeast Asia, it would be to another photo squadron—on an Air Force base with bunks and a roof over our heads and, according to Shahbazian, swimming pools and air-conditioned NCO clubs. The certainty that we would never be slugging a gun through leech-infested equatorial jungle brought us all a measure of unspoken cheer. The assumption that many of us were heading for careers in Hollywood added to the warm, fuzzy vibes.

I was especially upbeat because I’d survived a temporary overdose of naïveté, volunteering for cameraman duty and getting turned down. Like a lot of my later problems, it was Ron Cooper’s fault. I was impressed that Cooper had connections in Hollywood and had permission to drive in to Disney Studios every Friday afternoon to observe a real, live American Society of Cinematographers cameraman at work on the sound stage of the latest Disney live-action feature. It didn’t seem important at the time that he was parlaying his part-time-projectionist gig at the base theater into a film-bootlegging racket. It was his passion for cinematography that rubbed off on me to the point that I volunteered to give up my air-conditioned editing room. Fool that I was, I failed to notice that every cameraman on base except Ron Cooper was scheduled to do a tour of Nam—flying combat—or had just come back. It turned out that editors were leaving the Air Force for cushy civil-service jobs faster than the Viet Cong could kill cameramen, however. Colonel Sandstrom, AAVS Director of Production, turned down my request, confining me instead to three years of hard labor hunched over my Moviola editing semitruthful news clips. The more combat footage I looked at, the luckier I felt.