IMAGINE IF BETTY GRABLE had goose-stepped before newsreel cameras that brought World War II to movies theaters across America. Or, if Gweneth Paltrow appeared in a burqa to proclaim the virtues of Jihad.  

Everyone has the right to dissent, even celebrities. But, when a beloved icon goes beyond dissent and offers aid and comfort to an enemy during wartime, the act carries a special degree of hurt. The men who fight for their country feel a deeper sense of betrayal. These are, after all, the women many fantasize they are fighting for.

Many of those who fought in Vietnam hold Jane Fonda in special contempt because of her very public dissent of that war, going so far as to travel to Hanoi during that time to encourage them in their fight to kill Americans.

Yes, we fantasized over her. Those of you of a younger generation who know her only as an aging actress may not understand. However, anyone who fantasizes over Paris Hilton has no room to talk. Jane was a beauty in her day. Just look at her in Barbarella. Paris with the goofy look pales by comparison.

Hanoi Jane, as she came to be known, may be a revered actress in a community that expresses self-hate to garner popularity in foreign markets as well as among progressives at home, but she is the reviled icon of betrayal for my fellow veterans. Unfortunately, that derision has given rise to false stories of Jane's time in the enemy camp. Yes, she was there and up to no good. But no, she did not take any direct action that resulted in the death of torture of American inmates of the Hanoi Hilton; the infamous North Vietnamese prison camp where so many U.S. soldiers, sailors, and airmen were treated inhumanely. No, her statements and actions attempted to give legitimacy to the illegitimate acts of barbarians, but no one suffered directly at her hand.

I am strident in my assertions because I fear that those who help circulate false claims tend to denigrate the valid ones. 

Also, I tend to be a little more forgiving of her stupidity. What else can you call it? By all accounts she was virtually abandoned by her father and easily influenced by men who recognized her vulnerability. A much older Roger Vadim directed her in movies that capitalized on her sensuality and Tom Hayden, a man with decidedly socialist tendencies, directed her political activism. There is little evidence that she had an ego or an original thought until much later in her life, long after she had been used by the anti-war activists of the 1960s. Indeed, Jane did not appear to develop any self-will until she married Ted Turner and apparently cajoled him to finance a documentary extolling the virtues of Communism. One can only wonder why a man who had been afforded so many benefits through the auspices of capitalism, would back this venture. One can only assume that he was either senile or bewitched by his wife's charms (and some might argue that senility made him subject to them). 

In any event, the sweetest irony of this period of her life was that Jane once proclaimed

“It's my fondest wish, that some day, every American will get down on their knees and pray to God that some day they will have the opportunity to live in a Communist Society.”

In which church do you suppose, would Jane and the communists wish us to utter that prayer? (Do I have to remind anyone that communism espouses atheism?)

Also, being a man, I tend to forgive Jane somewhat because I spent so many years fantasizing over her myself. Forgive me. I can still watch those movies she made before she married Hayden, and even then somewhat later realizing that she was merely a dupe. After all, I wasn't fantasizing about discussing philosophy or any other subject with her. 

Most importantly, I wish to reaffirm that I am not opposed to dissent. I have quoted Dwight D. Eisenhower many times on this subject.

"Here in America we are descended in blood and in spirit from revolutionists and rebels -- men and women who dare to dissent from accepted doctrine. As their heirs, we may never confuse honest dissent with disloyal subversion."

Anyone who knows me can safely vouch that I have often objected vociferously when I disagree with my government and even the majority of my fellow citizens. My novel, Rebels on the Mountain, indicts America's government for their poor handling of relations with Cuba. My coming novel will indict it further for its gross mishandling of Korea. 

However, I would never knowingly advocate anything that would injure my country or imperil its Constitution. I would never give aid or comfort to my nation's enemies, nor would I travel beyond the shores of my country to encourage its enemies. That is my limit and Jane Fonda exceeded that limit by many thousands of miles.

That being said, let's turn to the question of treason. Did Jane Fonda go beyond mere dissent?

The framers of the Constitution intentionally limited the definition of treason so that it could not be used by the United States as it had been used by tyrants throughout the ages. Many “nobles” used treason to remove anyone who threatened their rule or simply displeased them. Think of Henry VIII declaring it treasonous to disclaim his right to divorce and remarry at will. 

In Ms Fonda’s case, North Vietnamese leaders have openly acknowledged that they were on the verge of conceding the war and accepting a separate state to the south. Richard Nixon's willingness to attack NVA bases at home and pursue their lines of communication and supply in neighboring nations had brought them to their knees. North Vietnamese leaders also have openly acknowledge that they were encouraged to persevere by the extraordinary extent of dissent in America. This is the message that Jane Fonda effectively delivered when she visited North Vietnam during the war. She did not deliver arms or weapons to the enemy. She did not deliver secrets relating to American strategy or tactics. She did not take up arms against her fellow citizens. However, she did provide “comfort and aid” that significantly helped them maintain the will of their people to fight. Thus, it is reasonable to argue that she betrayed the trust we have a right to expect in our fellow citizens. It is reasonable to argue that there was at least an indirect causality between her actions and the resulting events in Southeast Asia. Although she did not take any action that might result in the overthrow of our government or our Constitution, she did provide aid and comfort to an enemy in a time of war. 

Does all this amount to treason? If we are to remain true to our heritage, we must say no. We must presume innocence until guilt is proven and declared in a court of law. If we have any cause for anger, it must be directed at officials who have failed to bring this question to a competent legal authority. 

Now, let's focus on the real question. Is Jane Fonda merely the focus of our anger for the fact that we believe that we Vietnam Veterans are still reviled? Despite recent protestations otherwise, does political will still remain firmly in the camp of the dissenter? If we were truly respected, would our officials take Ms Fonda's case before a grand jury? 

ONE OF THE greatest shocks I recently received came when I was roaming the streets of Garden Grove in Orange County, California, and suddenly found myself in Little Saigon. The colors and textures of the storefronts as well as the signage I could not read but intuitively recognized as Vietnamese, instantly took me back more than 40 years. I was back, really back in another time and another place. 

I'm not sure if that was the incident that first made me conceive of writing a book about the Vietnam War. I know that I was egged on by all the nonsense I see about it on TV and what I was hearing from children that they were being taught in school. I often have been tempted to kick in the screen when I see a Mike Wallace retrospective. But, recently there was a show that gave me the greatest shock of them all; House Hunters International aired an episode of an Swedish family moving to Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon), and searching for a new home there.

The last time I was in Saigon, there was just one working traffic light in the whole city. There were bunkers at each end of every bridge and warnings were prominently posted to keep you from stopping anywhere on the bridge or you would be shot (to prevent saboteurs from detonating car bombs). Although it was once known as the Paris of the Orient, it's beauty was masked under a patina of peeling paint. At first glance, there's little in this episode of House Hunters International that even remotely resembled my memory of the place other than the plethora of motor scooters and motor bikes crowding the city streets. 

If you watch it, keep an eye on the parts of the city surrounding the modern edifices and beautiful homes that they focus on. There's a lot of old Saigon still in evidence. Like Communist China, the leaders of Vietnam are putting a lot of lipstick on the pig. There is the illusion of prosperity, but still the ravages of a centrally controlled economy are in evidence. 

SOME WHO SERVED in Vietnam were posted in Saigon, and there have been many stories written and filmed of their experiences there. I went there but rarely.

My first visit to Headquarters, United States Army, Vietnam (USARV), located then in Saigon and later moved to Long Binh, was to visit the officer in charge of casualty reporting. I had just been assigned to head up the casualty office of the 9th Infantry Division, and wanted to coordinate with them. My driver dropped me outside the headquarters building and went off on another errand while I waited for someone to come take me inside. I stood there watching a river of humanity swirl past me on motor scooters belching blue smoke until an MP tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to join him in his bunker where he guarded the door to the headquarters building. “You're making me nervous,” he explained. I had just arrived in-country and wasn't street-wise to the fact that Viet Cong, usually women, rode on the backs of motor scooters driven by their confederates, looking for idiots like me to shoot as they passed by.

I hadn't seen much of the city on the way to USARV HQ because of the confused traffic patterns that distracted me even though I wasn't driving. After my initiation by the MP, I was too focused on the mass of people around me to see it. I felt vulnerable sitting in an open jeep until I had returned a few more times and decided to stop worrying about it.

I had been in-country about two months when I decided to quit smoking one day. I'm not sure why, it was cheap enough; a carton of cigarettes only cost two dollars. The health scare had not yet been realized. I simply quit and my men laughed. I promised them all the beer they could drink if I fell off the wagon, and soon found myself headed back to Saigon with a driver, a jeep, and a trailer. On the way back from the docks with the trailer full of beer, street urchins known as cowboys began climbing on, breaking into cases, and pilfering cans every time we were stopped by the congestion. One intersection was so jammed with trucks and motor scooters that we sat for several minutes while I attempted to hold back throngs of the little thieves. Frustrated, I left the driver to defend our cargo while I walked to the intersection to direct traffic. People obeyed because I was armed, and the intersection was quickly cleared. I was probably in more danger standing in the midst of those throngs, bullying them into obeying my commands, than at any other time during my tour of duty; even when we got lost on the way back.

A stalled convoy blocked the road on the way back to Long Binh and we detoured through Ben Hoa to get around it. We took a wrong turn there and ended up on a rural road bordered by rice paddies on both sides. It was too narrow to turn around, especially with the load of beer in the trailer behind, so we keep on looking for some place with enough room when we came upon an American patrol. They were strung out in double file, one on each side of the road, and I had the driver stop so I could talk to their platoon leader who confirmed that we were going in the opposite direction away from where we needed to go. I thanked him and we continued on ahead of them, leaving them to wonder what kind of an idiot I was. I should have referred him to the MP at the USARV headquarters for a conference.

We found a farmhouse about two miles farther on and were able to turn around in their front yard. Later, when we passed the patrol now going in the opposite direction, I stopped and told the patrol leader that all seemed safe for the next mile or two and wished him a good day. Now, he was certain that I was an idiot. I was.

My next trip to Saigon was by helicopter, and I had a much better view of the city. We approached from the south, over the Mekong River. The city sprawled from the docks and tank farms on the Saigon River and extended as far as I could see to the north, east, and west. It was comprised on one-, two-, and three-story buildings; there were few that were taller. The Vietnamese used bamboo for structural support, except in a few government buildings and hotels, and it couldn't support the weight of a skyscraper. 

Once known as the Paris of the Orient, it had decayed after the Japanese replaced the French colonialists during World War II and never recovered its glory. When I arrived, it was crumbling at the edges and a patina of peeling paint covered almost every wall and ceiling. Few bridges had escaped attack, and those that remained open had gaps in the roadway. Sandbagged bunkers stood on both sides of each end, occupied by machine gunners and displaying signs that warned against stopping anywhere on the bridge; violators to be shot.

I only found one functioning traffic light in the whole city and it was largely ignored. There were no one directing traffic either; police officers probably feared exposing themselves in the rush of traffic, just as I had learned. Thus, intersecting traffic wove around each other in scenes resembling a figure eight race course in a demolition derby. Amazingly, I never witnessed even one accident despite the crush of horse drawn, pedal powered, and gas powered bicycles, tricycles, scooters, buses, trucks, autos, and jeeps.

I'm sorry that I only saw the city once at night; that was my last night in Vietnam as I waited at the barracks near Ton Son Nhut Air Force Base for my flight out the next day. I couldn't see much from under my mattress. It was the first night that the North Vietnamese Army rocketed Saigon following the destruction of the Viet Cong during the 1968 Tet Offensive. I had nowhere else to go, so I simply dragged my mattress off my bunk and over me, and went back to sleep.    

THE COMBAT INFANTRYMAN BADGE (CIB) was the most sought after decoration in Vietnam, especially by people who didn't deserve it. You probably never heard of it. However, now if you see one on a soldier's uniform, you'll understand its significance.

While heading up the Awards & Decorations Branch of the 9th Infantry Division Adjutant General's Office, I was constantly beset by requests to issue orders awarding it to non-combat officers. No enlisted man ever sought one for himself. 

Another award, the Expert Infantryman Badge is similar in appearance - it only lacks the laurel wreath - is earned by infantrymen who demonstrate exceptional infantry skills by participating in rigorous testing.

The four explicit rules governing the award of the Combat Infantryman Badge were simple: (1) the recipient – any enlisted man or officer below the rank of general – had to be assigned in an infantryman's Military Occupational Specialty (MOS), and be assigned to a combat infantry platoon, company, battalion, or brigade; (2) soldiers with a primary MOS other than infantryman could receive the award if they were trained as infantryman and met all other requirements; (3) the recipient's unit had to be engaged in combat with a hostile force; and (4) commanders were not authorized to make any exceptions to these requirements.

My duty as a platoon leader of a base camp reaction force did not qualify me for the award (in case you were wondering).

These requirements were spelled out in Army regulations that I wore like armor when confronted by superior officers demanding that I ignore them. One major slammed his hat on the ground and shouted at me to issue orders awarding the CIB to every member of his non-combat unit. He cited another infantry division that was handing out CIB awards to everyone. Incidentally, the commanding general of that division was subsequently ordered by the theater commanding general to rescind every order and reissue them only to qualified recipients.     

I WAS THE leader of my youngest son's Cub Scout Den. During the last of four years, I had to prepare them to become Boy Scouts. They had to learn the Scout Promise, Motto, and Laws. They learned the meaning of “thrifty,” “clean,” and “reverent.” My assignment to head up the Awards & Decorations Branch of the 9th Infantry Division's Adjutant General's Office during the second half of my tour of duty in Vietnam, uniquely qualified me to help them understand the Boy Scout admonition to be “brave.”

Like most people, including adults, they equated bravery with a lack of fear. However, after telling them a few stories they began to reach a different conclusion. I told them about Audie Murphy, the most decorated combat veteran of World War II. Some say that he listened in bewilderment as a citation of his heroism was read. It seems that he had lapsed into a fugue state on at least one occasion when he acted above and beyond the call of duty. All fear was lost, and he attacked like an automaton. After listening to several stories such as this, the boys began to see that a person may perform seemingly heroic deeds without a sense of fear. They then pondered if that was truly brave. It was a short leap from there to the conclusion that bravery or courage is “doing what is right or required in spite of the fear of the consequences.” This is the lesson that I wanted them to learn. It was the same one that I learned in Vietnam. 

The commanding general of a U.S. infantry division is authorized to award any decoration up to and including the Silver Star, which he occasionally did in the afterglow of a major battle. We would follow up with the appropriate orders and citation to memorialize the award. In most cases, recommendations for decorations came from field commanders, and I convened a board of officers about once each week to review them on behalf of the division commander. I was given a roster of officers who had been assigned to the Awards & Decorations Review Board, and called three to sit on each week's panel. I generally selected one senior officer, lieutenant colonel or colonel, to chair the board, and two lower grade officers, captain or major, to fill it out.

Generally, I gave them the date, time, and place, and they dutifully showed up. The first time, however, I called the 9th Infantry Division Provost Marshall, a full colonel, to chair the board, he listened to my summons and asked, “Am I the senior officer on the board?” When I replied that he was, he informed me that he would tell me the date, time, and place of the meeting and hung up. I waited a few heart beats and called him back to ask when and where he wanted to convene the board. He asked for the time and place I had called with. After I repeated the information, he said that would be fine and hung up again. We had a delightful relationship following that first encounter. I always respected officers who wore their mantle of authority well, and effectively destroyed any hope of a career in the Army by disrespecting those superior to me who I had to bully to get anything done.

The Awards & Decorations board rarely disappointed me with their decisions. However, there was one that drove me to discard their votes and have them recast by another panel. A medic was cited by his unit commander for having rushed headlong to save a fallen comrade despite a hail of gunfire directed on him from a Viet Cong ambush. The victim was the point man of an American patrol who had sprung the ambush before his comrades entered the killing zone. As he fell, all of the Americans went to ground except for the medic. He rushed forward and covered the fallen man with his own body until the enemy was driven back, and then provided life-saving aid. He was recommended by the unit commander for an award of the Silver Star. The Awards & Decorations board were inclined to grant the award until I read the closing line of the recommendation; the medic was a conscientious objector. Personally, I found it noble that he served in combat even though his status could have shielded him from being drafted into the Armed Services. The panel of officers that day voted unanimously to reduce his award to a Bronze Star with “V” device signifying valor. I discarded their recommendation and the medic was ultimately awarded the Silver Star that he, in my opinion, deserved.

My most humbling duty was investigating and memorializing recommendations for the Medal of Honor. I was honored to work on four. I will probably create separate postings for each at some future date. However, I cannot leave this posting without providing some insight into the care taken by the Armed Services to insure the validity of an award of its highest honor.

I bound each recommendation for award of the Medal of Honor in a three inch loose-leaf binder approximately three inches thick. It was divided into several sections including a detailed description of the action being cited, witness statements, intelligence assessments of enemy strengths and deployments, operational orders, weather reports, and everything else that I could provide that would help a panel of senior officers, located in a Washington, D.C. office, truly understand and appreciate the danger to which the individual had exposed himself and the significance of his accomplishment as well as the consequences of his possible failure. Common wisdom dictated that no one could be awarded the Medal of Honor if they had not been seriously wounded if not killed. However, in one instance, the recommendation succeeded despite the fact that two individuals had succeeded in destroying several enemy bunkers and routing a Viet Cong company-sized force of nearly two hundred men, and escaped unscathed. Both men were awarded the Silver Star within moments of the end of the battle, and reassigned to division headquarters to await their DEROS (return home from the combat theater). Interestingly, both made terrible garrison troopers suggesting that true heroes are not as suited to the parade ground.      

AS I WATCHED the casualty reports cross my desk, I began to surmise that anyone who survived their first month “in-country” had a better than even chance of surviving their one-year tour of duty. The reason seemed obvious; until a soldier acclimatized to the extreme heat and humidity of the Mekong Delta, they could hardly react effectively in a fire fight. 

Indeed, until I acclimatized, I often thought that if someone pointed a weapon at me, I might welcome it. It was a good month before I could function in that heat and I had had a full year of strenuous training before I arrived.

Imagine the plight of the average infantryman newly-arrived in Vietnam. Most had just eight weeks of Basic Infantry Training and eight weeks of Advanced Infantry Training. None of it had occurred in anything remotely resembling the climate of Vietnam, especially the humidity of the Mekong Delta.

Over the years, I have wondered why our soldiers were not sent to U.S. Army bases in Panama, the Philippines, or Thailand, to better prepare us for our tours of duty in Vietnam. I have wondered how many lives could have been saved and how much more combat prepared we would have been. We will never know. 

Fortunately, shortly after command of the 9th Infantry Division, “The Old Reliables,” shifted to Major General George G. O'Connor, the Reliable Academy at our division headquarters at Camp Bearcat was established, and newly-arrived soldiers were given two weeks in-country training. Not only were they exposed to combat techniques taught by seasoned veterans, but also, they were given two weeks to acclimatize to the weather. I was no longer the division casualty officer when the Reliable Academy began operations, but I believe that it must have saved lives. 

It seemed to scare the bejesus out of the enemy. At the end of every training cycle, the Academy graduates participated in a patrol to set up Listening Posts and Interdiction Points (LPIPs) outside Camp Bearcat. These positions were never disturbed, and trainers speculated the reason was the fact that the newly arrived soldiers were extremely trigger happy. No one dared approach them with the trainees shooting at every sound and perceived movement. Ultimately, they still needed to be assigned to seasoned units and be teamed with experienced soldiers to settle them down.

I wonder if other combat units in Vietnam did the same?  

I HAVE STUDIED eleven languages in my lifetime and speak none of them well. Lack of practice. Of them, Asian languages seem the most difficult – and I'm sure they say the same about ours – because it uses parts of the tongue that we never employ, much as German uses guttural sounds that are not common in English. Also, subtle changes in inflection have significant effects on the meanings of words and sentences.

I was fortunate that I had a native translator with me on most occasions that I had to communicate with Vietnamese civilians outside the base camp. I was also fortunate that I usually had the same one. Although he was born and raised in Saigon, he communicated well with rural civilians. Not all city boys could.

For those occasions when a translator was not available, we were provided with a pocket-sized phrase card supplied by the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam – the MACV Phrasebook. It contained useful words and phrases written in English and Vietnamese. You only had to point to something you want to say in English and hold it up to a Vietnamese-speaker who couldn't read his version. Most people living in the rural areas were illiterate.

No problem. Between each English/Vietnamese pair of phrases was a transliteration – an English approximation of what you wanted to say or ask. This brings us back to my earlier point about the importance of inflection in Asian languages. Also, there was the fact that there were many sounds which we had never heard and which could not be enciphered into English letters. Besides which, how many of us can even interpret those that represent English. Read the pronunciation guides in an English dictionary and get back to me.

Lastly, there were only about a hundred or so phrases to work with. What were the chances that any were appropriate to your needs? Not very good. For example, I arrived at a Vietnamese village with a jeep and a driver and a package to deliver to the headman. The section for Entering a Village included the following choices:

• This village is surrounded (Right. I had one man with me, but he was really fast)
  
  
• Bring the village chief
  
  
• You will not be harmed (How about me?)
  
  
• How many VC are there (There? How about here?)
  
  
• Where are the weapons hidden? (Like they're going to tell me)
  
  
• Where are the tunnels?  (In the ground - stupid question)
  
  
• Where are the booby traps? (I need to know -- I'm a booby)
  
  
• Come outside (The most useless phrase inasmuch as I wasn't about to go inside anywhere with them)
  
  
• Enter first (I'm not coming)
  
  
• When was the attack (Like I would be caught dead anyplace anyone wanted to attack)
  
  

Fortunately, "Bring the village chief" answered my need – mang lại cho trưởng thôn. Once in front of me, I could hand the package and leave. But, just for fun, imagine a conversation of your own, on any subject, limited to the above selection of phrases. Feel free to provide us with a complete script in the comments section below.

Of course, the guard at the entrance to the village was illiterate. Thus, I was reduced to reading the transliteration aloud, hoping that he understood – "yon sa trong ton." (How the hell do you get 'yon' out of "mang?"

Now, that may be wrong. You see, my card had been soaked through from sweat and humidity, the ink ran, and I was quite sure that is what it said. However, I took a breath and read it aloud to the best of my ability. I was met by a very puzzled look. So I tried a variation. Here's another game: How many ways can you pronounce that combination of letters? Please, add your list to the comments section below.

After many attempts, I had attracted a large crowd of Vietnamese who sat on the ground around me and laughed uproariously at everything that came out of my mouth. I believe that there were a few Viet Cong among them who could have shot me but felt that my embarrassment was a superior form of torture.

An American unit arrived, led by a major who explained that the village chief had been sitting on the ground next to me the whole time. 

đó là cuộc sống*

*that's life   

THERE I WAS in Vietnam, surrounded by some of the best cuisine in Asia, or the world for that matter, eating Army chow. Generally, Army mess halls are the brunt of many undeserved jokes. The most vocal critics are boys who have known little more than their mother's food. They have never had to pick up a salt or pepper shaker because mama made everything exactly the way they liked it seasoned to a perfection defined by the tastes they had developed soon after being weaned and never varying. Ketchup or salsa were the only condiments they needed to make anything acceptable to their palate. I, on the other hand, had grown up cooking. I began by doing prep for my mother after she joined the workforce when I was about age 9 or 10. By and by, I began starting cooking family meals on those days when she worked late. As a Sea Scout, I became the ship's cook and did the shopping as well as the meal preparation. 

Inasmuch as my father had avoided service during World War II and my brother never really shared with me his experiences in the National Guard, I had little to prepare me for military life other than Beetle Bailey comics. I fully expected to see “Cookie” in my mess hall in Basic Training, wearing a dirty sleeveless t-shirt and slinging mystery meat and potatoes (that I would have to peel on KP duty). Imagine my surprise when I discovered basically good food that needed just a little “adjustment” with table condiments to sate my appetite for reasonably good tasting, if not delicious meals. Surprisingly, the mess hall food in Vietnam was equally good when you could get it.

Meals in the field were, of course, another matter. C-Rations had not been manufactured since 1949, and Meals Ready to Eat (MRE) would not make an appearance until long after the war in Vietnam was a distant memory. Modern soldiers have told me that MREs are pretty good; certainly better than C-Rations. “'49 Cs” or “C-Rats” (as we called them) were a mixed bag; some edible, some barely, some almost good. Finding canned fruit in your B12 (dessert) package was always a treat. Peanut butter and cheese spread were inedible since the oil and solids had separated since the manufacture date; but, the oil could be burned to heat up the other portions of your meal. Also, every C-Ration kit included an accessory pack with a small bundle of toilet paper, chewing gum, can opener, and cigarettes. The latter had long since dried out and burned with all the ferocity of a fuse when lit allowing the smoker one brief puff before singing nose hairs. Surprisingly, Air Force personnel who could not otherwise obtain C-Rations, seemed to really like them, and we were able to trade them for almost anything the Air Force had in surplus that we desired. For example, we built a shower outside our hooch using a jet fighter wing tip tank as a reservoir; painted black it absorbed the suns rays all day providing us with a hot shower at night.

Fortunately, I never had to survive on K-Rations. These were meals in a highly concentrated form, usually mystery meat by-products, grains, and fruits, all compressed into a bar and wrapped in foil, providing lots of calories in a most unappetizing form. Members of Long Range Reconnaissance patrols carried them to survive extended periods of time while operating in hostile territory where they could not be resupplied easily. You could survive on them, but had little inclination to do so.

Unfortunately, a tour of duty in Vietnam was like a stint in rehab for the milk-drinkers among us. Like most young American men, I had been raised drinking copious amounts of milk. Our family milkman wept when I marched off to war. Every Army mess hall stateside had a refrigerated dispenser with two large boxes of milk; one whole and the other chocolate, and it made early Army life bearable. The milk we were served in Vietnam was reconstituted from either powder or condensed milk, and it was undrinkable, even to those of us who were addicted. Imagine my joy when, on R and R to Hawaii, I sat at a breakfast counter while I waited for my hotel room to be prepared, a waitress delivered a large glass of milk unbidden. When I mentioned that I had not ordered it, she replied simply, “You were going to,” and she was correct. I downed it in one drink and asked for more.

One of the unfortunate side effects of mess halls catering to our tastes was that our excrement smelled far different from that of the Vietnamese who ate more vegetables, rice, and fish. If you had a bowel movement while hiding in a listening post or sentry bunker, your location would be advertised to any Viet Cong hundreds of yards down wind regardless of how deep and how fast you buried it. Even your body odor was dictated by diet, and our scent was detectable by the enemy. Conversely, we could find them, especially at night using our noses as well.

The only relief from Army cooking came in the care packages that we received from home or the food that we bought from the Vietnamese. There were rumors of Vietnamese sabotaging food and drink, and some soldiers were afraid to touch any of it. I felt that if I bought something from a street vendor who was catering to the local clientele, and that I selected my own portion rather than allowing the vendor to pull something out of a special stash, I was safe. Thus, I came to discover Vietnamese cuisine.

Vietnamese cuisine is not loaded with the heavy sauces such as Mandarin cooking. It is not as spicy as Szechuan nor Thai dishes. They are more likely to use rice paper whereas other Asian cooks might use wonton skins or crepes. The sauces are delicate and they use fish, shell fish, and oysters, while limiting the use of pork and beef. Pho is their best national dish consisting of vegetables and very thinly sliced meat cooked in hot broth as it comes to the table. The diner is then provided with an assortment of condiments rivaling the selection of kimchi found on a Korean table. 

Towards the end of my tour of duty, our Division was joined by the Royal Thai Regiment. We built an annex to our base camp Bearcat near Long Thanh, and officers were frequently invited for a Thai meal and an evening of kick boxing for entertainment. Anyone who could eat everything placed before them was awarded a Dragon Pin that became coveted, not for the quantity one ate, but the ability to swallow molten lava with impunity. I could not end this reminiscence without mentioning the snack foods that we survived on. Necessity is truly the mother of invention, especially when it comes to developing a comfort food from whatever you find at hand. With a loaf of bread pilfered from the mess hall and a can of mayonnaise or peanut butter (yes, they came in cans painted olive drab – Army OD) we added whatever ingredients we could come up with. Peanut butter and mayonnaise – the mayonnaise lubricated the thick Army-issued peanut butter and helped it go down. Onion sandwiches – simply slices of onion and mayonnaise on bread. Don't laugh, we developed a taste for them that has stayed with me to this day. 

It's funny how many other foods I still eat though they were viewed with horror when I first enlisted. SOS (Shit on a Shingle) – creamed ground beef in a greyish white sauce served on toast for breakfast (the Navy version was made with rabbit and nowhere as good), remains one of my favorites. It is one of those foods that can transport me back to those days when I was a better man, certainly more fit and full of adventure. 

I HAD SOME rather harrowing experiences in helicopters during my thirteen month tour of duty in Vietnam, but none can compare with every flight aboard the Army's tiny observation helicopter, the OH-23G. As luck would have it, every time I climbed aboard one, I found the same pilot flying it, Captain Dale R. Spratt. 

Known affectionately as Jack Spratt, he was one of the most decorated helicopter pilots in the war; certainly the most decorated flying for the 9th Infantry Division. I have found just two citations for him in my recent searches; one as the commander of the 174th Assault Helicopter Company in 1971, and another as a donor to an educational fund as a retired USA major.

The citations for his awards of the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Air Medal merely scratch the surface of the legends that circulated about him. His passengers claimed that he would not fly an 0H-23G more than five feet off of the ground because he didn't trust one any higher than that. The airframe was inadequate for the engine, he explained, opining that the FAA would never certify an OH-23G for civilian service. However, when I hitched a ride with him from Dong Tam to Camp Bearcat, he insisted on taking the poor thing to its maximum altitude so I could take better pictures of the clouds for him using his camera. There is something disconcerting about sitting with half of your bottom suspended over open air with the ground several thousand feet below. The pilot sits in the center of the OH-23G while two passengers at most can sit, one on either side.

As I was taking pictures, I heard a strange object pass us. This was no mean feat since the engine sits just a few inches behind your head and the manufacturer made no attempt to impede its noise. The pilot hadn't heard anything because his ears were effectively muffled by his earphones. However, he heard it at last when he pulled one earphone aside after I dug my elbow into his ribs to get his attention. Consulting his charts, he decided that we had wandered into an area where artillery shells were enroute to targets somewhere below, and we quickly descended.

I had heard stories of him strafing VC that he found in open terrain like some sort of WWII Spitfire pilot, shooting his M-16 out the side of the bubble canopy. Helicopters didn't carry doors in Vietnam to save weight. On another occasion, an artillery forward observer riding with him claimed that he landed on top of a VC bunker and instructed the observer to lean out and lob a grenade in the firing aperture. No sense in throwing good artillery on a bunker.

There's a man we need in Congress to stop wasting money.  

MY EXPERIENCE IN Vietnam during the war encompassed the Mekong Delta between May, 1967, and June, 1968.

The Mekong Delta is a vast sea of silt collected along a 3,000 mile journey from the Tibetan Plateau to the South China Sea. It stretches over 15,000 square miles with no high ground from which you can escape the endless horizons of rice paddies, rubber plantations, fruit orchards, and scrub. It has to be viewed from a helicopter to truly appreciate its magnitude.

Distributaries lace the Delta providing corridors of transportation as well as drainage. Anyone not familiar with a river delta might be confused by this concept. Those who have trod mountains, hills, valleys, and plateaus, are more familiar with water courses such as rills, brooks, streams, and rivers, meeting and joining to form ever growing waterways until they empty into the sea. But a delta such as the Mekong is a place where the great River divides itself into smaller waterways that wander, seemingly aimlessly, sometimes intersecting, sometimes crossing, always searching for the sea.

It is no wonder that so many have coveted the Mekong Delta. Rice grows in an abundance sufficient to sate any nation's hunger, and sweet, potable water lurks beneath its surface, easily reached by shallow wells. Many civilizations have claimed ownership over the millennia, and many others have attempted to possess it.

Unlike the great Mississippi Delta, the Mekong Delta is heavily populated. Its waterways are lined with homes where the family boat is tethered at the front door and the family farm is accessed out the back. Narrow roads paved with laterite, a clay-like soil, rusty red in color from deposits of iron oxide, join the waterways with villages that appear here and there on the Delta like ships at sea. Bicycles and three-wheeled motor scooters carrying laughable loads of every type of goods as well as people dominate the sparse traffic, accented by the rare appearance of a motor vehicle; usually an older model French-built Citroen looking like an escapee from a futurist's illustration with their turtle shape, wrap-around windows, and wide track front wheels trailed by two closely set rear wheels.

Charcoal is the only fuel available for cooking; heating is not necessary since the year round temperature varies between hot and volcanic exacerbated by intense humidity. Few villages have even one earthen charcoal oven there being few sources of dry wood to feed them. Most buy their charcoal from merchants plying the waterways in floating stores. 

Houses along the waterways are built atop stilts while those along the roads and in the villages are built of foundations of laterite piled to about the same height as a rice paddy dyke. Most roofs are deeply woven grasses, while a few homes of the relatively affluent have some sheets of galvanized, corrugated metal. Whether the floor is of dirt or wood, the women can be seen daily sweeping them with brooms made from palm fronds whose leaves have been split into individual fibers finer and more efficient than straw or nylon brooms found in modern American homes. When I was there, many walls were clad with flattened beer and soda cans giving them a gay though eclectic appearance.

Occasionally, a white clapboard colonial mansion encircled with a wide veranda can be seen, usually surrounded by a plantation of well regimented rubber trees. Although the French army had been defeated at Dien Bien Phu several years before my arrival, the plantation owners had remained, guarded by the growing American presence.

Other than the humidity, the Mekong Delta is an almost ideal place to live for an agrarian society that is not tempted to acquire the toys of modern invention. Rice, the staple of life, is abundant, and the rice paddies as well as the waterways teem with protein in great variety; fish, oysters, crustaceans, and eels. A person may live there enjoying the benefits of family and community without care so long as they are left in peace. Unfortunately, through the millennia, they rarely have.