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The Saigon Post
March 5, 1971

SAIGON NOTES

by
Daniel Cameron

THE POWER OF PAPER TIGER

In a social setting one night recently a local journalist talked with a man from the office of a very high Government official. They discussed paper-tiger warfare--psywar, that is. With an emphasis on previous bombing campaigns over North Vietnam.

According to sources, North Vietnam spent 10% of its budget on the propoganda war. Saigon spent 1%, Newsman asked why only bombs were dropped on North Vietnam, and never leaflets. Wouldn't the cost of a day's bombing pay for a year's leafletting, or something like that?

The official replied that leaflets had been dropped during American bombing campaigns in the past.

Were these leaflets well-prepared?

Probably not.

Did North Vietnamese people find the messages persuasive?

That was questionable, certainly.

Was a serious long-term leaflet campaign ever envisioned?

Seems not.

Which was all a way of leading to the critical question: Which did Hanoi fear more--bombs or leaflets? The sinewy tiger or the paper tiger?

Traditionally a simple question deserves a simple answer, but who can deny that traditions continue to crumble before our astonished eyes?

Proposition: Hanoi commissariat is well-versed in the art of psychological judo. It knew how to turn opponent's bombing strength to its own purposes.

Proposition: Hanoi cleverly orchestrated the theme: 'Every bomb dropped will harden the resolve of our people,' and people hardened. Initial fear transmuted into pride and indignation. Latter was transmuted into heroism or fanaticism, depending on your point of view.

Satement of fact: The Americans, who are not psychologists, continued to drop their bombs. Bomb tactics had great nuisance value, but were never like the saturation bombing of Dresden and Hamburg in WW II. Firebombing a large city is total war, a far cry from the slippery kind of war. Most bombing in Vietnam was meant only to slow some supply networks or to prevent allied soldiers from being over-run in tactical situations.

Proposition: In the North the bombing acted as a vitamin supplement for a war-weary population. The bombing was not too little and not too much. It was just right. Exactly what enemy paper tigers needed. They knew that the Americans, despite some hawkish hawks, would never do to Hanoi what had been to Hamburg or Dresden. That would revolt the world and a great many Americans. It was politically unacceptable, even though most Americans haven't the faintest idea what "political war" means.

So the US military (a paragon of the non-political) would give the North just what its psywar paper tigers needed. Not too much. Just right, Baby. Just enough to portray the Americans as "mad bombers" to a world audience and "insolent imperialists" to a Vietnamese audience.

Question: Did South Vietnam have any paper tigers capable of launching leaflet campaigns more fearsome than bombs?

"On the civilian side we are weak," the official said. "In this field our military personnel are much better."

It was agreed that anybody can drop a bomb. Any tiger with claws can scratch.

Clever old Mao, in another sense, derided the Americans as "paper tigers." But he had a different understanding of the phrase for himself. So the little Red books inundated China.

Some paper tiger, that Mao.

AROUND THE TOWN

Sorry, but we still can't give you a first-hand report of action in the Laotian border area. MACV, which will accredit almost anything on two legs, still refuses to extend official press accreditation to this columnist. MACV says it cannot accept because we are from a Vietnamese-owned publication. And the US press, which interested itself in the Don Luce accreditation case, neatly manages to ignore this one.

TIPS? UNUSUAL TIDBITS? The fast way to contact this column is to put a note on one of the two bulletin boards in JUSPAO, 145 Nguyen Hue Street.

Anatomy of the Media

The Saigon Post

March 12, 1971

                                 from  SAIGON NOTES

                                               by

                                                    Daniel Cameron

 

 

    

 

KENNETH CRAWFORD, in the February 23 Washington Post reports a speech made by former Post Editor J. Russell Wiggins.  Wiggins asked a rhetorical question. How would today's media have reported George Washington's crossing of the Delaware at McKonkey's Ferry on Christmas Day, 1776? Wiggins' answer to his question:

 

"Television camera men would have focused their zoom lenses on the rag-wrapped feet of Washington's troopers. When it was over, microphones would have been thrust under the noses of stripling recruits to catch their answers to the question: 'How do you feel about some of your buddies being lost in this sneaky operation?'...New York editorial writers would have followed with lamentations...Washington, instead of attacking, should have been negotiating...His occupation of Trenton and quick withdrawal showed that he was still engaged in search-and-destroy operations--following the will-o-the-wisp of military victory...."

 

Tee-vee might have done unusual work in other wars too. What about a sequence from the Civil War, with a title like, 'DISCIPLINE CRISIS IN THE ARMY.' Camera pans in to the draft riots as the Irish tear up New York City, shouting "Hell no, we won't go!' (Historically, they shouted worse.) Americans at dinner watch draftees escaping back to their farms. In another clip a Captain shoots a private who fails to advance on line. Next, the camera zooms in on a high-ranking officer. He's unkempt, rather shaggy looking. Needs a haircut badly. Is he even sober?  The camera seems to be searching for lice in his beard. As he looks down at the camera, the TV reporter looks up, extending the mike, while careful not to be trampled under the stallion. He shouts to be heard above the din. "But don't you agree. Sir?  This is a very dirty, unpopular war. Isn't it,  GENERAL GRANT?"

  

WHEN SAIGON FELL

The following is from a log I kept. Much more extended notes are in my office files, partly for CBS TV reportage and audio work, kept during May 1975 , amounting to about 50 pages.

Saigon, Wed. April 23, 1975 The war, of course, is over. The North Vietnamese Communists have won. Saigon is virtually surrounded, Ford-Kissinger talk about negotiations. Everybody else does too. De riguer. Exactly how the Communists choose to finalize things remains to be seen. I suspect they'll go the political route now, so long as nobody resists. The US is humiliated.

Saigon, Thurs. April 24, 1975

The political moves keep moving. Entire 23-man Cabinet of Premier Nguyen Bu Can resigns. Can. a non-entity, was appointed by President Thieu 10 days ago to head the "War Cabinet". The French, quick to move into the vaccuum created by US retreat, seize diplomatic initiative, lend "good offices" to pave way for negotiations. Ambassador Jean Marie Merillon has met twice with interim half-blind old President Huong.

No need, it seems, for VC/NVA to smash their way into this place, even though Peter Arnett of AP writes that they've been "poised" for attack on Saigon for 48 hours now, with 150,000 troops around the capital.

During last few days at least a dozen Vietnamese or Chinese have approached me to help get them out of country. Piaster officially 725 to dollar. In black market it's at least 2500.

Saigon, Sunday, April 27, 1975 About six rockets hit Saigon last night. I heard a big bang. It must have been the one that slammed into new "VIP" room at Govt,-run Hotel Majestic. Battered pieces of tin roofing hanging over roof ledge facing Saigon River. First rocketing here since Jan, 1973 Paris Peace Accords. Apparently a message from VC/NVA: Get a new Government we'll negotiate with, and fast, or else.

Looks like National Assembly got the message. Today old President Huong out, neutralist "Big" Minh is in.

My friend Joe Donohue, Korean war vet and one of the last of the American retirees living here, to leave on DAO emergency evacuation flight tomorrow with his Vietnamese wife and kids. To land at Guam where a tent city for 50,000 has been set up.

Saigon, Monday April 28, 1975 Around 6:30 tonight it sounded like the "final solution" began. I had just gotten back from seeing off Joe Donohue and his Vietnamese family at bus taking them to Tan Son Nhut airport for evacuation to Guam. Suddenly a series of booms. Thunder from afternoon rain storm? Machine gun or automatic rifle or AA fire seemed to be breaking out all around Nguyen Hue Street. After it let up I ran over to UPI. Apparently Presidential Palace was buzzed just after "Big" Minh finished his Inauguration speech, And landing strips were bombed at Tan Son Nhut. Not good timing for Joe Donohue and his family. standing by for evacuation.

Saigon, Teusday, April 29, 1975

Consul Watanabe offered me refuge in the Japanese Embassy, I thanked him and declined, Later, about 4 in the morning, from my little room above the Chinese watch shop on Nguyen Hue, I heard the big BOOM! again, And again etc. That, I learn later, was the North Vietnamese, shelling Tan Son Nhut airbase with their big Russian .130 mm. guns. The gymnasium housing refugees was hit. Two very young US Marines on duty outside were killed. At UPI they said a VNAF C-130 was knocked down over Saigon with a SAM-7 missile. 7:30 am At
US Embassy nobody could or would say whether total Embassy evacuation would occur today. Entire US Seventh Fleet off coast of Vietnam. 24-hour curfew in effect since last night, I hear, but I walk the streets un-hassled. Lots of helicopters in the Saigon skies. So far, at least (0930) Saigon itself has not been shelled. AP says Communist infantrymen are attacking outskirts of Saigon, Phu Lam etc.

Saigon, Wednesday, April 30, 1975

The Communist Army entered Saigon today around noon. It was after President "Big" Minh announced a ceasefire and virtual surrender. Tanks, Molotova trucks, jeeps and uniformed Vietcong all over the city.
People are intensely curious, seem to be
accepting the swift and relatively bloodless capitulation. The 30-year war has ended. It will be interesting to see what happens here. Communism has never gone this far south.

Saigon, Thursday May 1, 1975

The CBS telex went dead yesterday afternoon, but not before we got stuff out to CBS, Newsday, Chicago Tribune, Reuters and Eric's old Honolulu Advertiser. [CBS knew my Brit friend, Eric Cavaliero. He was their night man at the Bureau. Eric was never going to leave the Vietnam he had an almost religious-like romance with. The Communists didn't get him out till about a year later in 1976.]

We were told that the telex would come on again at 8 this morning. Then the word came that the telex would be cut for the next three days. Looks like a total news blackout, except for "specials" going through single band of Japanese and French Embassies. Relative order in the littered streets. French wearing tricolors very conspicuously. Curfew 1800-0600 hrs.

Had a very ugly scene here at the CBS Bureau in R, 206, Caravelle Hotel. The opium addict Mr. Don took great offense
when I told him that Eric reported money missing from the CBS safe. I didn't accuse him of anything, barely knew him, just wanted to see if he had any suggestions. At one point, freaking, he went into the closet and said he was looking for a gun to shoot me. But it didn't lead to a case of 'the last American casualty'. There was no gun around.

Vietnam/Kampuchea 1969--June 30, 1975

The Saigon Post
March 19, 1971

SAIGON NOTES

by
Daniel Cameron

C' EST LA GUERRE

Quang Tri
A steady, cold drizzle here. Press Camp fairly active. Bedding satisfactory. Food tolerable, if you're the tolerant sort. The trips out to Khe Sanh through the foggy mountains, interesting. Best of all, the phone lines to Saigon worked.

Several days after arriving, this reporter left. A diligent Lieutenant discoverd that I had been doing my work on the basis of a Vietnamese press card instead of a MACV one.

ON VISITING LAOS

KHE SANH

Ham Nghi, three klicks south of Khe Sanh proper, is the site of the Vietnamese headquarters for the operations in Laos. News people who want to go into Laos are brought here from Quang Tri in US helicopters. Most, so far, haven't made it into Laos.

The danger, the often dark skies, the shortage of Vietnamese helicopters, are only part of the reasons why. One of the most important reasons is connected with a new ruling which has come down all the way from Secretary of Laird himself.

This Laotian affair marks the first time that newsmen are allowed to visit the scene of important operations only on a specially assigned "press" helicopter. On the surface, it seems considerate to make this chopper available each day. In practice, so far, it means that you're not likely to get into Laos.

Things were different last May and June in Cambodia. You showd up at headquarters in Tay Ninh, If the "press" helicopter had already left, or there weren't any, you waited around for anything on a space available basis. You were welcome to an empty seat on most anything going into Cambodia. It was understood that a newsman, as an adult, took his chances as he saw fit. This custom also allowed him to avoid press parties. He was able to get around and exercise initiative, enterprise, and other things that used to be associated with good journalism.

One of the subtle effects of the new ruling for Laos has to do with its creating a certain conflict between the newsmen and the helicopter pilots. These pilots already have their hands full in flying normal military missions into Laos. One of the most professional newsmen told me that some pilots don't like the idea of having to fly a hazardous mission exclusively for the press.

"And I don't really blame them," he said.

The new ruling for Laos might conceivably keep some of the correspondents from getting themselves killed, as well as from getting first-hand information. On the other hand, forcing them to travel only in relatively large groups could contribute to increasing the media fatalities. If the helicopter is hit, you could lose a lot of people all at once. That's what happend in February when four, including famed photographer Larry Burrows, all went down in Laos.

Luckily it didn't happen on March 12 when a US helicopter took three bullet holes over LZ Lolo in Laos. The chopper turned back and was able to land safely in Quang Tri. It was carrying six civilian correspondents.

STREETBOYS AND CHRISTMAS


(from the column SAIGON NOTES---byline Daniel Cameron---in the Saigon Post, December 18, 1970)

STREETBOYS & CHRISTMAS

The bui doi (streetboys) ask to shine your shoes or sell you a paper or they just wander around looking for something. Most are either orphans or runaways from a cruel domestic situation.

In March 1968 ex-Bostonian actor Dick Hughes founded the Shoeshine Boys Project at 195 Pham Ngu Lao Street, Here the bui doi could eat, sleep, wash, and have the feeling that somebody cares. Dick's original project has expanded to three sites in Saigon, housing 125 boys, and one in Danang with 30 boys. Not a bureaucracy, it receives no aid from any government. A few businesses have contributed.

Thanks to Mrs. Minh Ha, a pert young ex-university student who teaches English and volunteers at the Project, some of Vietnam's best known entertainers will perform gratis at 9 Sunday morning, January 3 at 23 Thong Nhut right next to the British Embassy. Mrs. Minh-Ha personally visited all the performers. Dick Hughes explains.

"They hesitated at first, but when they heard it was for the benefit of the bui doi they agreed."

Tickets at 300, 400 or 500 piasters. Performers will include Jo Marcel (who also helped organize the show), The Apple Trio, female singers Khanh Ly, Thanh Lan, Le Thu, My The, Diem Thu, male singers Anh Khoa, Vu Thanh Anh, The Dreamers (pop band), the husband-wife team of Le Uyen Phuong, also Ba Con Meo (The Cat's Trio) and the Couvent des Oiseaux School which does Chinese, Russian and Vietnamese dances.

Some 200 invitations have been sent out. It is hoped that 1000 will attend and 400,000 piasters will be earned. The money will be used to renovate the streetboys' housing and to give them a Christmas party. Tickets can be purchased at 195 Pham Ngu Lao, the Lyly Dress Shop at 73A Le Than Ton, and the Ritz ar 145 Tran Hung Dao. Persons not able to attend may wish to make a donation.

(The following from SAIGON NOTES--byline Daniel Cameron-- in the Saigon Post, January 8, 1971, under 'THE STREETBOY BENEFIT')

It was something of a milestone in local philanthropy. It packed the house last Sunday morning at 23 Thong Nhut, next to the British Embassy. Organizer PHAM- VAN- TUYNH says it raised 200,000 piasters. Though not a huge sum, this will help renovate the bui doi (streetboy) housing, with maybe a little left over for a Tet celebration.

"We are very proud of the show," TUYNH told this column. "It is the first time that all these singers have come together to help like this. Now many people know about our work."

Some of the best singers in Vietnam took the stage: LE THU, diminutive body, powerful voice, emotionally a sister to Edith Piaf; THAI THANH, a lusty chanteuse who does everything from Vietnamese ballads to the Blue Danube Waltz--with training she could hold the operetta stage in Europe, it seems; ANH KHOA, a very mod young man who can croon with the likes of Johnny Mathis; PHAM DUY, grey-haired and knows how to dominate a stage like a crafty French artiste and can out-perform most anyone half his age; PHAM DUY's baby sister, JULIE QUANG, warbles nicely too. All this was only part of the talent on stage. With the best, the band played low and voices took over. Some of the female groups gave the effect of nightengales with nightengales.

There were also Russian and North Vietnamese folk dances and a Central Vietnamese folk music group. Later four costumed girls did an intriguing Chinese lantern dance. Each girl held a long rod with a lighted lantern suspended from it. To the rhythm and melody of a male-female song, they moved very lightly, with much grace and charm.

All in all, it benefited the audience too. You got your piasters' worth, and more.

dcr
Vietnam/Kampuchea 1969-June 30, 1975

The Saigon Post
May 10, 1971

SAIGON NOTES

by
Daniel Cameron

LETTER FROM A MASSACRE

Government sources have made available to this column the transcript of a letter found in the pocket of a Catholic priest who was murderd near Hue in 1968. It is the first known letter recovered from a victim of the Communist massacres during their 1968 Winter-Spring Offensive .

These sources reveal that the body of Father Buu Dong, age 57, was found on November 8, 1969 at Luong Vien which is about 30 kilometers northeast of Hue. The bodies of two other Catholic priests were in the same grave. This location contained a series of graves with a total of 20 bodies.

Father Buu Dong was a popular figure in charge of the Su-Lo An Truyen Parish in Phu Vang District. A dangerous combination for him: very popular, respected and non-Communist.

The letter he left is on one sheet of paper folded three times. Circumstantial evidence clearly indicates that it was composed during the time of his captivity. It's a testament written to his family. He has no hope of ever seeing them again on Earth, "but I hope to meet you in God's country, my dear parents."

He has entrusted a friar to carry back to them "all my beongings and to be divided among you." He has also decided on "the recipients of the three sewing machines."

Sources say that a boy who tends buffalo led authorities to the graves of Father Buu-Dong and the others. This boy reportedly witnessed the executions five months earlier. He did not at first report what he saw because VC strength in the area was still too intimidating. The boy said that Father Buu-Dong was shot
and the other two priests were killed by clubbing their heads with the stock of a rifle.

The buffalo boy also said that Father Buu-Dong had asked his captors to permit him to go see the Vietcong District Commissioner because he was innocent. Permission was not granted.

Government sources have also made available to this column the transcript of the VC Battle Plan for the 1968 Tet Offensive against Hue. Paragraph II, sub-headed Religion, provides background on events such as those which doomed Father Buu-Dong and others. Section 'a' deals with Catholics.

"We must encircle churches and schools. In case the enemy hides inside the church, we must pursue and capture him. Priests and vicars who conceal and protect the enemy must be arrested immediately.

"We must explain to the people our reasons; at the same time, force them to give us their weapons. We should carefully judge criminals in order to determine their punishment ("death or imprisonment.")

The transcript of Father Buu-Dong's letter has been translated into English. Below is the complete text.

FATHER BUU-DONG'S TESTAMENT FOUND ON HIS BODY UNCOVERED ON 08.11.1969 AT LUONG VIEN.

I humbly bow myself to you, my dear parents.

You will be very sad to lose a child. Though I am not fortunate enough to attend on you in my old age, I think you would find comfort in and be pleased with learning that through love for God and for men I have bravely discharged my duty as a Catholic priest and a believer,

I beg you to forgive me for all that may have displeased you during the past 57 years.

I hope to meet you in God's country, my dear parents, please pray for me (an illegible line.)

Younger bothers Claudia, Hiep, An Xuyen, Thieu, Tuong Anh, Xuan, Raphael, Ling, Khue, Nhu, Sao, Khoi, Chinh Duan, Nghi Dien and my near and far paternal and maternal relatives.

I hope to see you all in Paradise.

Please pray for me whether I am alive or dead. Your elder brother.

I entrusted Friar XH with arranging with you to carry back all my belongings and to be divided among you. I have decided on the recipients of the three sewing machines.

Dear Children of Christ:

This is my last writing to remind you of Peter's blessing on the host in the storm...(3 illegible words.)

Please remember my blessings in the beginning of spring on my religious mission and pray for me when my life ends in accordance with God's will.

(Love Maria, and forgive all errors (1 word illegible.)

Let me thank you....(4 illegible words) Pray to God to forgive me. Sincerely pray for me so that I may live in love, austerity, to establish peace for Christ, to spiritually serve God and Maria's spiritual children.

Pray for me so that I may peacefully and bravely endure all spiritual and physical sufferings and that I may confide my body to God through Maria.

I hope we shall meet in God's country.

God bless you (end of letter)

Note: As per copyright regulations, it is requested that any news agency making use of material from this column credit the writer, column and newspaper.

The Saigon Post
March 29, 1971

SAIGON NOTES
by
Daniel Rodill

STATESIDE ACTION

The February 10 feature in this column about two elderly Americans who spent almost a year in US Army and Vietnamese prisons on homicide charges and claimed they were framed by US Army CID personnel was not picked up by any agency or member of the Saigon press corps, but we now have a reaction from Mr. JAMES H. DILLON of New York City.

DILLON is Presdident of the Construction Men's Association, Inc (12 Avenue of the Americas and 249 West Broadway. In a March 19 letter he writes:

"I had your column photo-offset and mailed it to 100 different newspapers in the United States."

SURGICAL SERVICES

The recent news about government deputies who also do part-time work in other fields such as smuggling heroin, gold and jewels has brought responses from many Vietnamese groups. According to the newspapers Tieng Vang and Tin Sang, MR NGUYEN DINH, Chairman of the Vietnam Veteran's Association indicates that his group will take action. The Veteran's Association "would raise the case of smuggler Deputies with the Government in the near future and would "amputate the hands of smuggler Deputies."

REVOLUTION & SAMBA

O Cangaceiro, with Tomas Milan, at the Eden. It wasn't a spaghetti Western after all. It was a techniclor serving of humor, uncouth savagery and provincial Brazil. Nothing immortal or award-winning, just something that has fun with revolutionary social themes. Espedito and his band of bearded, sharp-shooting barbarians are loved by the people and not loved by the wealthy. The Governor, who wants to assign Espedito's haunting grounds to foreign oil interests, knows that he must either kill him or buy him, whichever is easier. He sends a blond Dutchman to contact the bandit chief. The cool adventurous European saddles a horse, takes a good supply of cigarillos and a sleeping bag and rides into the Brazilian back country.

Satisfactory acting, and a wild scene where the banditos samba with society matrons at a ball to which the Governor invited them. Lovely haunting melodies of Brazilian guitar songs and earthy little scenes lend atmosphere to the film .(The European on horseback comes across a poor farm girl who is pregnant and asks the father why the girl has no husband. The farmer, not interrupting his pounding of cacao beans in a bowl, replies indifferently, "I took her myself. My wife died. Children are needed around here."

Espedito and his men are a dirty hard-drinking, hard-fighting bunch. After shooting it out successfully with Government troops, they ride out into the night singing the famous Brazilian folk song, 'O Cangaceiro', The Dutchman manages to contact Espedito, reads books to him and gains his trust. But the European has a certain liking of Espedito and has not decided yet whether or not to betray him.

'O Cangaceiro' has defects which any NY Times film critic can tell you about. but it's a watchable movie.

AROUND THE TOWN

A reporter just in from up-country mentioned an American Colonel who sends empty aircraft out every day on cross country flights in order to get the sorties on his record. The Colonel is preparing himself for promotion to General....Heard recently. An American who walks with a broken hip had his wallet snatched recently outside the Mekong Restaurant. Despite his hip trouble he dropped his cane and chased the thief through the street and managed to catch him. In the process he lost a wristwatch but got his wallet back. This particular official has years of experience in Vietnam.

PS TIPS or otherwise suitable information may be mailed % Saigon Post, or leave message on JUSPAO bulletin board, 145 Nguyen Hue Street, Names withheld on request.

HELICOPTER HELL

from SAIGON NOTES, by Daniel Cameron in the Saigon Post)

===================================================



Saigon, March 10, 1971





Within the next few weeks Veno expects to fly his first mission into Laos. "I can't think of a better way to die," he states, then, getting carried away again, repeats: "This USO is so great it's unreal."

Martin Woolacott's report from Quang Tri, "Custer in the Clouds," appeared in the February 19 Guardian. He's a sober Englishman but finds himself astonished by the young American pilots who go flying into the helicopter hell of southern Laos.

Sometimes it pays to represent a British paper in this war. Not being emotionally involved like the Americans, the English can afford to be more relaxed and may be more perceptive about these events (although they still managed to turn out a Kipling etc back in the infernal India days.)

American reporters, so often, have to labor over "body counts" and "according to informed sources" etc. The war is a subject for national convulsions back home and political species on the make. Who wants to hear about real people while being palpitated and convulsed? So sentences like the following would tend to come from an English correspondent:

"They are the most astonishing bands, these 19 and 20-year old (helicopter pilots) that the US Army trains up in nine months and thrusts into Vietnam. sustained by a strange combination of adolescent fantasies and immediate personal loyalties."

Is it unfair to say that an American today writing like this for American editors might be suspected of having strayed into the jungle and contracted a rare brain fungus?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It is well that war is hell, lest we become too fond ot it.

---Ancient Greece and Rome

The Saigon Post
February 12, 1971

SAIGON NOTES

by
Daniel Cameron

A RIDE TO THE AIRPORT


This is part of a true story that happened recently.

Mr A, an American, was hiding Mr X somewhere in Saigon for several days. Mr X is not American or Vietnamese. The two men are business associates. For Mr X's protection, Mr X was preparing to fly him out of the country. Mr X was in trouble because his honest business brought him into conflict with a grafting operation in Saigon. Members of this particular ring are all from Mr X's native country. Their activities also affected the American, Mr A.

Mr A planned to return to Saigon after this exodus and fight for his business rights. Mr X might return at a later date if it became safe for him.

Mr A asked if I could be there in the morning when they left for Tan Son Nhut airport. He was interested in getting pictures of himself and Mr X at the airport. He was also concerned that members of the ring might try to grab Mr X before he could reach American territory. Mr X not only failed to submit to these people. Following Mr A's advice, he also talked publicly about them.

"That's when he signed his death warrant," Mr A said.

Mr A could be melodramatic at times, but he was usually very logical.

Two big dogs were in the yard when I arrived in the morning. The hideout seemed fairly calm. A boy called the dogs off me. Mr X was a nice looking man. He was dressed in a business suit, packed and ready to go. He had already made a long distance telephone call to his wife in his native country. She would try to publicize his predicament in their country's national press.

Mr X looked calm but also troubled. Mr A, tending to last-minute business, was hard-driving as always. If he was worried, he didn't show it.

"A car with Embassy plates will pick us up," he said. "I don't think anyone will bother us in that."

The car would also be able to drive Mr X right onto the airstrip, while another man went through processing for him at the civilian air terminal. The car plates were not from the American Embassy.

Two major American television networks had been notified of this little event to take place at Tan Son Nhut that morning.
Both indicated that they would not be able to be there. It was decided not to bother with the third.

When the car arrived we drove downtown to the Pan Am office on Nguyen Hue. Mr A went in to pick up two tickets. He was gone a long time. Finally he appeared.

"I called them up yesterday," he said, "but the girl hadn't made out the tickets."

As we headed for Cong Ly he said he spotted an agent for the "ring" in the ticket office. He was sure he had been followed during the past several days. A car with more of Mr A's people followed us to Tan Son Nhut.

The civilian air terminal was filled as usual with tourists, businessmen, military personnel and some families. A very pretty American girl, brunette and tanned, wearing a red shawl and brief skirt, was talking to a Lieutenant. Mr A and his people lookd around but spotted nobody really suspicious.

Mr X waited with us in the car in the parking lot while somebody processed for him. Finally a man brought his ticket. It was decided he could walk through the regular passenger line instead of going the V.I.P. way. When the big jet was ready, Mr A smiled.

"First thing I'm doing when they close the door on that plane is sleep. Haven't had much this past week."

The big jet was ready. Mr A and Mr X took their small carry-on luggage and walked out to the strip. We waved to each other just before they got into the plane.

The Saigon Post
July 30, 1971

SAIGON NOTES
by
Daniel Cameron

A VIETNAMIZED YANKEE

The crowd at Maxim's liked the young American tenor with the neatly trimmed mustache. The applause following his western ballad wasn't the indifferent, polite kind. When he did the North Vietnamese folk song, QUA CAO GIA BAY (about two lovers crossing a bridge in the wind) the audience spontaneously accompanied him with rhythmic clapping. First time I saw that at Maxim's.

His way with the Vietnamese sounded oddly authentic. Whence came such an American?

The answer is that Ted Dutton was born in Dalat in 1947. He's spent most of his life in Vietnam, except when he attended Claremont Men's College in California, earning a degree in political science. His parents are with the Christian and Missionary Alliance and have lived in Saigon since 1939. They have a daughter, 18, and another son, 15. Nowadasy their oldest son, Ted, teaches accounting by day (at the PX) and sings by night (Maxim's, Vietnamese TV occasionally, and sometimes at the Viet-My "when I feel like it.")

Beneath his reserved, smiling exterior there's a hotbed of opinion on Vietnam, the French, the Americans and "those privileged Vietnamese who have their tickets to Paris ready."

In the States he's had five years of voice lessons in art songs and arias. He did a lot of church singing and once appeared in Verdi's opera 'A Masked Ball,' given by the Riverside Opera Association, "but that was only a bit part." I first saw him several months ago at Maxim's where he appeared as the dashing American Naval lieutenant in an adaptation of Puccini's 'Madame Butterfly' which Lynn Skzynear and myself collaborated on.

When asked about Vietnam's future, he refers to his Californoa college days.

"I was an eternal optimist. But I was also disturbed at how close-minded the students and faculty were. If I didn't agree with them they turned me off. We disagreed about the validity of the VC as a truly South Vietnamese movement. They were always calling Ho Chi Minh a potential Southeast Asian Tito. My reading indicated he was a hard=line Bolshevik. My main difference with them stemmed from my growing up here. I had virulent anti-French feelings. I felt that even Ho Chi Minh had bought a French intellectual bill of goods."

Dutton's voice comes closest to anger when he talks about the French infuence here and the French-ified Vietnamese bourgeoisie. The French, though not racist like the English, tended to destroy Vietnamese identity by stressing the superiority of French culture.

"I think the Vietnamese identity is something precious and should not be destroyed."

Today wealthy Vietnamese sent their children to France and remained here only for profit. Their tickets were ready for Paris. There were children here who spke and thought in French without really knowing their own language. Their parents were fence-sitters, waiting to see what the future brings."

"As long as these people remain in influence, I don't see how Vietnam can assert itself."

Americans are always saying to him, "Oh, you were here when Saigon was the Pearl of the Orient!" He admits that Saigon used to be a beautiful city "but I'd rather see it as it is now if the Vietnamese could be their own masters."

The French bult roads and railroads etc, but it was all done out of a passion to exploit.

As for the Americans, "I've always believed that despite their mistakes they came in here with fundamentally pure, though ill-informed intentions."

The Vietnamese had a grudging respect for the French but "hated them passionately."

"A Vietnamese once told me that the French were good with words, but evil in their hearts. The Americans were untactful with words, but well-meaning."

Dutton is awaiting the appearance of a great leader who will save the country.

"You need a man who has an absolute will to stay in Vietnam, who says we will survive. Vietnamese are gamblers, but the fence-sitters are not ready to gamble on Vietnam right now....Americans aren;t tactful or subtle enough to support a Vietnamese leader without destroying his validity as a revolutionary and patriot....The fundamental weakness of the Americans is their inability to navigate in the real world of power politics."

Unless a very good offer to sing abroad came along, Dutton plans to stay.

"I'd rather stay here than go back to the States to pursue a musical career. This is my home. I feel relaxed here."

But in October he'll lose his accounting job because of cut backs in the PX. He'll also be in danger of losing his US citizenship unless he can work for another US corporation or government agency.

Meanwhile, he expects to re-appear on Vietnamese TV soon, doing a song by well known Hoang Thi Tho, Maxim's stage director. As for romantic or marital pans, "Vietnamese are always asking me if I prefer Vietnamese or American girls. I say I'll follow my heart."

He believes that a modern day Tran Hung Dao or Le Loi will appear and lead the country. But what if the worst happens?

"In that case, maybe I'll go to New Caledonia and join the Vietnamese settlement there."

dan cameron rodill

'Art Does Not Betray'

The Saigon Post

August 2, 1971

 

                   SAIGON NOTES

 

                              by

                    

                               Daniel Cameron

 

The young Vietnamese painter took off his dark glasses and spoke softly in English.

 

"Like the general mood of this Vietnamese generation, I go from day to day. We are not sure of our destiny. To tell the truth, I am pessimistic most of the time. But I hope I can go on painting. Everything is so ephemeral---friendship, money....The only thing that stays with you is your art. Art does not betray...."

 

LUCIEN TRONG is currently exhibiting his work in a one-man show at 105 Tu Do Street, Many of his still lifes and human subjects are painted in a manner so direct that it seems at first too facile, too uncomplicated.  This intial impression, in my case, gave way to a growing interest during the second or third viewings, just as certain people become more interesting when meeting them later. His approach to composition and esthetics confirms  TRONG in his metier as a painter of moods.

 

To paraphrase Somerset Maugham, an artist makes virtues out of his defects,

 

LUCIEN TRONG is in a position to exploit the advantage-disadvantage of never having been to art school.

 

"Technique comes with time," he said. "I think many untalented people go to art school. Art schools don't always produce painters."

 

LUCIEN TRONG was born 27 years ago in Ben Tre, a Mekong Delta town. Today he is a painter and a teacher, being Assistant Professor of Agriculture at Saigon University. He has attended the Sorbonne and received a License  en Science from the Ecole Forestiere in Paris. He also did six months research in Vietnamese botany at Oxford in England.

 

He started to paint in 1963 in Paris because "I was homesick." He was associated with the Galerie des Jeunes, a group of young Left Bank artistes, mostly French.

 

He speaks proudly of his older brother, also a painter, who attends Tokyo University. This brother recently gave an exhibition sponsored by the Vietnamese Ambassador in Japan.

 

"My brother was the first Vietnamese to exhibit Vietnamese subjects in  Tokyo."

 

LUCIEN TRONG has exhibited many times in Saigon and Paris.  Slender and smooth-skinned, he looks like he could be a well-groomd poet who carries a carefully preserved Rimbaud with him into a small cafe off the boulevard St Michel.

 

His canvases at this exhibit recall Gaugin, He admits the Gaugin influence but lists others too, Renoir, Boufet and the contemporary American portrait artist Aymer. The Vietnamese he mentions are Tu Duyen (a traditional painter of silk) and Dinh Guong (modern Vietnamese subjects.) He considers himself a highly subjective painter,

 

"I think of doing what I like at the moment and being sincere instead of what people want to buy."

 

This column asked for his impression on la condition artistique au Vietnam today,

 

"I think Vietnamesre art has improved a lot. The large amount of American money coming into the country has helped but it has also over-commercialized some painters."

 

LUCIEN TRONG'S rainy season exhibit continues at 161 Tu Do Street (across from the Hotel Caravelle) until August 8.

Saigon Post, April 5, 1971

SAIGON NOTES

by

Daniel Cameron

A VISIT TO THE BEER

Recently this column received a letter from a spokesman from BRASSERIES ET GLACIERES DE l'INDOCHINE, the French-owned firm that brews Beer "33" and Beer "LaRue." The letter was in response to our feature that dwelled on some of the criticisms of B.G.I's products. It begins (according to our translation of the French.)

"Being attentive readers of the SAIGON POST and, especially, of your column, "SAIGON NOTES," (whose humor and vivacity we appreciate), we did not fail to read in the no, 2287 of Monday, March 8, 1971, your article entitled "Beer and Embalming Fluid."

The letter continues for several pages and includes an invitation to visit the B.G.I. brewery in Cholon.
We considered the letter to be a fine enough example of French esprit, logic and seduction of a journalist's ego to warrant a printing in toto in a coming issue. In fact we even agreed with some of its points, and visited the B.G.I. brewery with two Vietnamese colleagues, Mr NGUYEN DUY LIEU and
Mr. LY HONG LAC.

We were escorted through seven floors of the B.G.I. brewery by MR JEAN PAUL RIVIERE, Engineer-Brewer. In general, we found the plant to be a modern, progressive clean establishment. Mr. RIVIERE, after a briefing, took us to the seventh floor where the beer-making process begins and 80 tons of the pleasant-smelling malt is stored. Some of the malt is local, and some is imported from abroad, mainly Europe. On different floors we observed the malt cleaning, malt grinding (from the original barley) the malt swirling and foaming with water in great vats, the extracts of German hops in cold storage, the fermentation tanks, the filtering processes, and the storage of the finished beer in 30,000 liter tanks in "caves" where the temperature is close to freezing. The lighter more economical LaRue is stored for 6 weeks in the "caves," before being bottled, while the stronger darker '33' is aged for 8 weeks.

Naturally, as amateur "voyeur," we could not evaluate these processes in a professional manner, but things looked proper, modern, hygienic and raissonable. As readers of our "Beer and Embalming Fluid" column might guess, we were especially interested in the bottle washing process. These bottles, which are on deposit and returnable, are sometimes used in Vietnam to store things like kerosene. While guzzling a bottle, one likes a feeling of security etc.

We saw two old bottle-washing machines and two new ones. The old ones are slow and do 3000 bottles an hour. The new ones do 24,000 bottles an hour. A spokesman told us that B.G.I. has been tryng for two years to import spare parts for these machines and also a new machine. In two months they will have an American machine, "the best in the world," which will do 24, 000 bottles an hour.

We were told that the company's quality-control laboratory is more modern than the one in Paris.

The government makes no provisions for regular health inspections, but US military facilities have taken an interest in the matter because G.I.'s are known to drink "33" and even LaRue. MACV, we were told, sends health inspectors on impromptu visits to the brewery and has given it passing grades. The most recent visit was about two months ago.

We were also told that the low quality sometimes found in "33" may be traced to unscrupulous merchants who pour the weaker LaRue into the "33" bottles. A bottle of LaRue holds about twice as much as a "33" bottle. Some merchants also put tea and alcohol in "33" bottles and sell it as beer. In Rach Gia Province last month it was discovered that many cases of "33" were actually mixtures of LaRue and water.

In the laboratory, after working up a sweat, we had several glasses of cold "33." Among the young ladies who work in the laboratory, is MISS NGUYEN THI THANG HOA, Ph.D in Chemistry from the University of Montreal. Mr. LAC was told that if he finds any impurities in his LaRue bottles again, they will be glad to do an analysis for him.

#30

(Part of ongoing digitizing Vietnam Legacy Project)

NY TIMES TALKING REPERTORIAL BLUES

Saigon Post,
September 1, 1971

SAIGON NOTES
by
Daniel Cameron

Note: In a departure from the usual preoccupation with prose, this column today takes the form of a song. To be performed in talking blues style in the manner of Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard etc. Jimmy Rodgers-type yodeling is optional. The characters are fictitious, but everything else is purely intentional.

THE ORIGINAL TALKING NEW YORK TIMES REPERTORIAL BLUES

1

Heard so much about the Vietnam War
I decided to find out what they were fighting for.
So I went and said goodbye to Sabina,
Bought a ticket for a jet to Indochina.

(Friend John said I sure had guts. Sabina said, what was I, nuts?)

2

Well, soon I was writin' "Hi, John,
"Wish you were here in sunny Saigon,"
And "Dear Sabina, don't worry 'bout me,
"I'm on Tu Do Street drinkin' that Saigon Tea."

('Course, the bargirl was drinkin' the tea, I was
payin' the fee...funny tea...champagne must be
cheaper....')

3

Now I wasn't a tourist and not a G.I.
Money runnin' low, hotel bills runnin' high.
No offers from the Army, Navy or Air Force
So I decided to join the press corps(e)

(Couldn't fight about it....Might as well
write about it....)

4

Found a newsman in a bar downtown
He was friendly enough to show me around.
I said, "Buddy, I'm down to nickles an' dimes,
"An' I want to write for the New York Times."

5

So he looked at me funny, like a mama-san
Selling matches on the corner in Saigon.
He said, "Friend, you don't stand the chance of a ghost.
"Why don't you try the Saigon Post"?

6

Well, I thanked him for his kind advice
And ordered us some shrimp friend rice.
I said, "When you want a spoon you don't try a fork.
"I still want the Times of New York."

7

Next day I went to cough all this
Up at the Times office.
Said I'd even do the jungle on coconuts an' limes
If they turned me loose in the New York Times

(Duck a .105 mortar, just to be a good reporter.)

8

Well, it was very soon---two days at the most
I was workin; for the Saigon Post.
The Times said come back in a year or three.
I think they meant in a century.

9

So traveled around to practice an 'ism,'
Known by the name of 'Journalism'
And I saw a lot of Vietnam capers
That ain't written down in those Pentagon Papers.

10

I've seen barbed wire and huts on fire
White phosphorus skies and bleeding G.I's
The brave jokes of poor country folks
And I've heard the songs of the many wrongs.

11

And if you ask what are they fighting for
And when will there be an end to this war
There's one thing that I know is true
Man wants to be free--or some men do.

12

And if I ever get back from Indochina
I'll have some news for John and Sabina
Good things and bad things, mercy and mines,
Things that didn't make the NY Times

Defiance at O'Reilly, Part 2

(from on-going digital Vietnam Legacy Project)

The Saigon Post

August 30, 1971

 

ETCETERA

 

     Defiance at O'Reilly

 

                   by

                Daniel Cameron

 

                  Part 2

 

Fire Support Base O'Reilly, Central Highlands, South Vietnam

 

[He was the youngest Colonel in Vietnam, in or out of combat.]

 

In mountain positions out there the enemy had mortar tubes, propped up by bamboo stakes, zeroed in on this place. Sometimes we casually step outside a bunker, only to be rushed back inside by Lt. Colonel Huan or the Aussie Warrant Officer Ray Oliver or Lieutenant Kelley who is one of the two American advisors. Politely but urgently they would say, "Not now," or "Better stay in here a while."

 

Out here it is still very much a war. We watched a Cobra helicopter air strike in the direction of the evacuated, ill-fated Fire Support Base Ripcord.  A little later we saw another on a hilltop  in the opposite direction, being prepped for a heliborne insertion of 1st ARVN  Division troops. One of O'Reillys 'light' teams is somewhere in the jungle right now, looking for enemy positions and movements. Lt Colonel Huan has just described a tactic of keeping an enemy element pinned down  by gunships while several of his men maneuver around and surprise them from behind with a volley of hand grenades. It sounded like Iwo Jima or something, but tactics have to change constantly. The enemy gets to learn your new tricks.  It is cunning against cunning.

 

At 1:10 pm we receive two rounds of .82mm mortars.  They fall a little short, landing down at the base's barbed wire edge.

 

"They're probably adjusting their range at a new position," says Ray Oliver, matter of factly. It's like a building and wrecking crew here.  We find a base camp, destroy it. They build another somewhere else."

 

"And they better not go wrecking this place,"  Lieutenant Kelly says at the radio, and, pointing at himself, "because this little boy only has twenty-five  days left in-country."

 

Ray Oliver is probably almost old enough to be Kelly's father. Kelly kids him but listens to him.

 

W.O. Oliver, who spends most of his time in the jungle with the ARVNs, eating the same rations, is a member of the Australian Army Training Team which has 200 men in Vietnam.  His left shoulder patch bears a British crown.  He points out that the Australian Army Training Team won four Victoria Crosses in Vietnam after winning nine in Malaya and Korea. He rates his ARVN troops highly. Their speed and stamina in the jungle surpasses that of the bigger Western troops.

 

"The ground fighting here has been all Vietnamese," he says. "That's the whole point of it.  And you won't find many Western soldiers who can carry their own weight in the jungle and keep up with these guys. We Westerners are too spoiled."

 

Oliver and Lt. Col. Huan agree.

 

"The enemy always knew exactly where the Americans were around Ripcord. All they had to do was watch where the helicopters dropped supplies every day. But our ARVN troops around here don't have this problem. We only re-supply every five or six days and move at night.  The enemy doesn't know where our field units are."

 

Oliver favors greater self-sufficiency in a soldier.

 

"The NVA does what we used to do in other wars. The principle is simple: If you want it, you carry it.  You don't play with choppers."

 

Lt. Kelley comes through the doorway in flak jacket.  He had gone out to pick up a mailbag from a helicopter that landed for two minutes. Unlike Oliver and Huan, he always wears a flak jacket now when stepping outside. Only twenty-five days left in country. And helicopters attract enemy fire.  He's got mail today and a box of chocolate cookies from home.  The door in this bunker is cracked open a wee bit, seemingly harmless, but he calculates that a mortar, landing perfectly, from the right angle, could get us if the door stays open like that.  It's a longshot, but not impossible.  Where the shell would have to land is almost the same spot where Major Nguyen Van Van, Commander of the 1st Battalion, 1st Regiment, was killed suddenly in August 12.  Van and Huan had graduated together from the Military Academy in Dalat.

 

"It is fate," the young Colonel said. "Lucky or no lucky decided by God. I lucky. Five times wounded, five red stars." (the Vietnamese equivalent of purple hearts)."It is fate."

 

A soldier fires the .106 recoilless gun, sending a dust cloud over our bunkers.  An ARVN squad below is climbing the steep slope into camp.  One soldier is carrying a human skull. He found it in a field.

 

Back in the bunker we hear that two more enemy mortars have landed near the camp on the side facing Laos.  Ray Oliver has an unopened bottle of Southern Comfort. Would we care for some?  Yes, we would, thank you.  Ray Oliver pours.  Lt. Kelley doesn't like Southern Comfort. He stays with his coffee.

At the radio he hears that our helicopter won't be arriving.  The Huey was just shot up on a prior mission. It's returning to Camp Evans or Camp Eagle. It took .51 caliber anti-aircraft fire.

 

"We'll get you another one," the young lieutenant says.

 

We finish the Southern Comfort.

 

Lt. Kelley is fairly small and thin-chested and looks like he comes from a very nice middle class family. His voice is hollow and bland.  Even his profanity sounds bland, but he was at Fire Support Base Ripcord the day the Americans went in there. He spent that whole bad month there.

 

"I counted beaucoup bodies."

 

He opens an official letter, hoping it's his order to go back to the rear. Instead it's a Bronze Star citation for action during his first day at Ripcord.  He tosses it aside among the books, magazines and cookies. General Truong, the 1st Arvin Division Commander, spent the night here two days ago. Truong, an under-forty two-star General, had only two days to go before being sent down to the Delta as the new IV Corps Commander.

 

"We didn't even know he was coming till his chopper landed," Kelley said. "I look up and there's a two-star coming through the door. He's a damn good man and a real morale booster, but I'm glad the enemy didn't know about this visit.  We'd have taken a ground attack for sure. They know his value."

 

We had a Vietnamese dinner with Lt. Colonel Huan and Ray Oliver. Later, Lt. Kelley reported that a Huey slick was coming our way, bringing an American Colonel for a brief visit. We could leave on the Colonel's ship.

 

"Better get your things ready," Ray Oliver said. I did.

 

Lt. Kelley, bare-chested, was relaxing now by the radio. As we were leaving, he dropped his glib tone.  He got up and shook hands, seriously and sincerely.

 

"Good luck, old buddy."

 

#30

 

 

 

 

Defiance at O'Reilly

The Saigon Post

August 30, 1971

 

ETCETERA

 

     Defiance at O'Reilly

 

                   by

                Daniel Cameron

 

                  Part I

 

Fire Support Base O'Reilly, Central Highlands, South Vietnam

 

[He was the youngest Colonel in Vietnam, in or out of combat.]

 

Two Vietnamese mortar teams of the 1st ARVN Division fired at points in the surrounding mountains.

Eardrums hurt. Inside his command bunker, Lt. Colonel Le-Huan lit a menthol-tipped cigarette.

 

"Let everybody know. We hold this hill. If enemy come, we have big victory."

 

Le-Huan, 26, is the youngest Colonel in Vietnam. He is small but sturdy, intense,  in constant motion, and has a flat, reddish nose. His eyes can be stern and emotional. He has spent too much time in jungle fighting---about four years---to know Saigon well.  He is brave, non-political and has learned the cunning of his opponents.  Men like him are unsually dangerous for Hanoi. They are perhaps symbolic of a new trend in the South Vietnamese Army: military leadership.

 

Lt. Huan's command post, Fire Support Base O'Reilly, is an embattled jungle edge of hilltop, hovering high in these dangerous mountains which you can see extending into Laos and North Vietnam. The panorama is vast.  Even on a fairly cloudy day you can see the DMZ (De-militarized Zone), the Gulf of Tonkin and that sandy stretch of what the French knew as the notorious Street Without Joy, running along the South China Sea. That dim hill in the sea is Con Co, an island belonging to North Vietnam.

 

Lt. Col. Huan's defiance is not based on any US ground troops. None are here.  He has only a couple American advisers and one Australian.  Everybody here is sitting right on top of a major NVA infiltration route and knows it. Helicopters in this area often receive ground fire.  Some have been shot down. You can almost see the infiltration route by facing Laos, turning your head  slowly across the valleys, peaks and ravines  till you see the lowlands down by the sea.

 

In "O'Reilly's" neighborhood is Fire Support Base Ripcord, evacuated recently by US troops after taking heavy shelling and heavy casualties. That episode only makes Lt. Colonel Le-Huan try harder.  He has never been to the US for training, but his English is rapid.

 

"After the Americans withdraw from Ripcord," he said. "the enemy plan to take 'O'Reilly' between August  5 and August 19.  They think they finish us off easy, no sweat. They choose August 19 because it big holiday for them. But our troops and US air support break their plan. We still here."

 

While the NVA is probably not planning a big drive into the lowlands at this moment it undoubtedly could gain an important political and psychological victory by doing to this Vietnamese O'Reilly what it did to the American Ripcord.

 

Lt. Col Huan says that the NVA 321 B Division, which used one or two battalions against Ripcord, may decide to throw five or six battalions against O'Reilly. The Americans left Ripcord under heavy enemy fire because they decided not to accept a continued high casualty rate there.  But it appears that the First ARVN Division (often called the country's finest) will not follow this example.  Lt. Colonel Huan has served notice that O'Reilly will not be abandoned. In fact, he has a message for the enemy.

 

"I want to tell them. We are ready. Bring two or three battalions right now.  If you only bring two or three companies, that mean we only get about 60 body count."

 

One reason that enemy body count is not easy to get, according to the Australian advisor, Warrant Officer Ray Oliver:  "When artillery or air strikes hit them, there's usually nothing left except pieces in the trees."

 

When you learn a little more about Le-Huan's past and Communist methods in Vietnam, the man's almost fanatical drive becomes more understandable.  His background helps expain why, despite a milieu of politics and corruption, he is one of those ARVN senior officers who will fight with a grim determination perhaps unmatched even by North Vietnamese who have been indoctrinated all their lives.

 

"During '68 Tet," Huan said, (referring to the big anti-Saigon  offensive),"the Communists kill my 70-year old father. My father never harm them. They push bayonet through his head.  He die after 1 1/2 months. They kill him because me, his son, was ARVN Battalion Commander."

 

Most military men who live, fight and sometimes die at these hauntingly beautiful, dangerous, ugly outposts, have commented on the conventional press. Lt. Colonel Huan is no exception. He tried to find words for his disappointment.

 

"Newspaper reporter write true about us, but not complete. They say 200 mortars fired at O'Reilly. Sure, true. But not complete.  They no tell how our men fight out in the field."

 

I was not going to explain,  I would not tell the young Colonel in this stark outpost that the big news media have decided that the world in general and the US public in particular do not want to hear about it anymore. I would not tell him that the way these men ar living, fighting and dying in three or four dimensions is not considered very newsworthy by the Media Establishment. I would not quote for him the veteran American correspondent who told me:

 

"All they want to hear about now is, how do we get out of here?"

 

I would not tell him that the media were  more interested in the politicians and demonstrators. They paid their people to get statistics, analyses, trends, controversies, opinions and so-called battle reports.  They reported how everybody was concerned about the boys and men who were doing it in Vietnam. But they rarely ever gave you the real life of these men and boys, except by accident. That would not be 'objective,' It would not be 'newsworthy' either. It was more 'objective' to let people remain statistics, trends and dummies for somebody's armchair opinion of the war. It paid better too. Ask the media.

 

(to be continued)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Indochina Correspondents

(from ongoing Vietnam Legacy Project, as detailed here July 4, 2009)

  The Saigon Post, Feb 15, 1971

 

SAIGON NOTES

 

by

     Daniel Cameron

 

THE INDOCHINA CORRESPONDENTS

 

And now they are dying again---this time not in Vietnam. They were all photo-journalists who go into war. An anti-aircraft shell smashed their Huey chopper in the sky over Laos during the South Vietnamese incursion. Four went down, besides the Vietnamese crew. Larry Burrows, Life Magazine. Henri Huet, the Associated Press. Kent Potter, United Press International. Keisaburo Shimamoto, Newsweek.

 

I remember Larry Burrows  in a chopper on May 2 of last year. There he was, bespectacled and famous, yet flying into the X-Ray Zone of the Fish-hook to see the first wave of American troops into Cambodia. He carried four cameras.

 

Somebody told me that KENT POTTER was from my home town, Philadelphia. I didn't know that.

 

HENRI HUET, another seasoned pro,  was a Frenchman and one of the real friendlies at the AP Bureau in the Eden Building. He was tiring of Japan and didn't mind coming back here. One day up in Pleiku he and DAVID ROSENZWEIG, also of the AP, joined a party of two helicopters. The first one, which they almost boarded, was shot down. Their chopper landed at the wreckage and found no survivors. A great many choppers have gone down in this war.

 

That was then for DAVID ROSENZWEIG.  He had already done a lot of good coverage in Cambodia during the torrid May-June campaign and began to tire of the war. He didn't get to this recent action in Laos. He had quit and gone back to California to get married.

 

                                       TAXATION

According to a former very high-ranking official, the GVN is planning new ways to create a viable tax collection system. If it succeeds, it will have done that which has never been done before around here.

 

The present tax control program is very unpopular. In questionnaires, householders are asked to list all their items of property, including air conditioners, TV sets, radios etc. People are alleging that some tax collectors are becoming outright extortionists.

 

President Thieu, it's reported, is considerng a revision of the whole tax campaign. He may consider methods like arbitration and other techniques used in the United States. One obstacle to tax collection is the fact that 80% of Vietnamese businesses do not keep books. How long this will continue is still debatable.

 

Sources say that the most successful tax evaders in the country are corrupt Generals, former high-ranking Government officials, and wealthy, influential businessmen. The United States is expected to support some of these Government of Vietnam efforts to get these uncollected assets into the nation's treasury.

 

AROUND THE TOWN

 

DAVE BAQUIRIN of the Manila Chronicle has arrived for a six-month tour. The English press is sometimes called the most free in the world, but from what we hear, that title may also be claimed by the Filipino press. Seven of the eight leading newspapers in the Philipines, incidentally, are in the English language. DAVE told us that one Filipino newsman, in order to get a story on the drug scene, went so far as to smoke pot and jab himself with heroin. Sounds like enterprising journalism.....TITO CARBALLO, in from Cambodia, says that no matter what you read in wire-service dispatches, Phnom Penh is still standing. And although hypertension has been afflicting LON NOL, there are no signs of it affecting most Cambodians, according to medical reports. The pace goes on. You sip each hour instead of gulping it.....Discussed sundry items recently with retired BRIGADIER GENERAL RICHARD S. WHITCOMB (a Colonel in the D-Day landing at Normandy.) He commented on Joe Fried of the NY Daily News. "Fried is one of the newsmen who are on America's side," the General said.

 

P.S. Tips? Contact Saigon Notes, the Mon-Wed-Fri column. Names withheld on request.

 

Steel Pot, Marijuana Convoy 2

 (Vietnam Legacy Project)

The Saigon Post, September 18, 1971

                                    Steel Pot in a Marijuana Convoy

                                         by

                                               Daniel Cameron

 

                                                   Part 2

 

Steve hasn't decided whether to finish that first joint yet. He may be a little high but seems in control. He's driven convoy in Vietnam maybe a hundred times already. He's going to receive Army commendation awards for it, if they don't find out about his smoking habits. Army policy is not to decorate a pothead even if the pothead earned it.

 

Steve still gets nervous on convoy. Ambushes and mines are still not very predictable. Driving so often can act as an anesthetic,  but today it's a little different. Today a civilian, somebody from "the World," is riding shotgun with him. He seems suddenly to remember that he's been living dangerously every morning and afternoon for 'beaucoup' mornings and afternoons.

 

He hates the steel pot but puts it on now, setting the grenades between us.

 

"This thing is hell on your hair," he says. 

 

He claims that the steel pot presses the hair against the head in  a way  that makes you go bald after a while.

 

"See my hair line?" he says, lifting the helmet. "It receded since I came to Vietnam."  

 

Maybe it had.

 

He throws the carton out the window and re-lights the joint.  He takes a drag like a drinker who hasn't been satisfied with the first two drinks.

 

News agencies and   folks will want to know, Steve, whether you're an addict.

 

"I ain't hooked," he says. "Grass isn't like that. I can stop anytime I want to."

 

Does he want to?

 

"Why should I? What else is there to do over here?"

 

Has he stopped.

 

"Sure. Sometimes I go all day without grass. A lot of heads around here do too.

Me? I'm not really a head.  I just like a joint now and then. It's something to relax you, make you feel better."

 

He used to be in the jungle with Echo Company, a recon platoon.  Did he smoke then, out in the boonies?  Sure he did. Lots of his buddies did too. They had to. Vietnam could blow anybody's mind.  They had to do something.  He liked grass better than booze, and booze couldn't be had out in the boonies, anyway.  Grass was a groove. He was sure he talked better with grass, became more friendly, mellow. More alert, too. And he was sure the VC smoked grass. His old recon platoon from Echo Company even found speed  in an NVA bunker once.   They figured that's how the NVA got themselves ready for those suicide attacks. They were hopped up on speed. Grass also made a person more alert in the jungle.  He could hear things, feel things better.

 

"Lot of my buddies say that's how the VC plays it so cool. Grass."

 

After a few drags, Steve seems more sure of his argument. He doesn't seem to be trying to convince himself now,  His smile is almost relaxed.

 

"I'm not stoned," he says. "Just a little high."

 

He seems in control.

 

The convoy starts again as suddenly as it had stopped. Two G.I.s who were urinating have to leap back into their  trucks. We pass a small town.

 

Mama-san has fallen asleep. Steve keeps his flak jcket unzippered.  He wonders out loud what he'll do back in Chicago.  Maybe go to an art school, if one accepts him.  He likes his roommate's  psychedelic posters in their hootch back in base camp.  Steve isn't arty, isn't a hippie, but likes to draw. And he'd do almost anything to stay out of a factory  when he goes home.

 

"A factory would be like another Vietnam," he says.

 

The convoy does more stopping and starting, giving no reason.  The machine gun escorts look ready for a fight in their steel pots and flak jackets. Nothing happens.

 

Finally we turn off the paved highway and onto that dirt road with puddles.  The last ten klicks are beginning.  Steve zippers up his flak jacket.  This road could make a good ambush alley.  It's narrow and crowded by elephant grass and hedgerows, all  of it thick, some of it on high ground looking down on us. You can't see anything in there.  Steve's had no contact here yet in six weeks. US minesweepers comb the road each morning.  We are passing here about three hours after this morning's sweep.

 

"I know roads like this," Steve says. "I used to drive convoy down in the Delta."

 

He reminds you that "great grass" comes from the Delta too. It's the home of the very smokeable "Delta Dew."

 

It was on a Delta dirt road like this where he hit a VC pressure device. His buddy shows you the pictures later. His truck made contact with the pressure device which set off the mine. The mine was hidden under a pile of buffalo dung on the dirt road. The blast tore a hole next to him right through the floor of the cab. A rider sitting next to him in your position would have been killed instantly, or pretty instantly. But Steve had no riders that day. Even more lucky for him, he was driving a roofless cab that day. The force of the blast lifted him straight up and out of the cab.  He landed by the road, unhurt.  Luckily too, no ambush followed the blast.  The explosion made a crater about three or four feet deep.  The convoy could afford to smile and take pictures of Steve posing in the crater.

 

"Some guys get religion over here," Steve says, without irony.

 

Later you meet one of Steve's buddies, a friendly Italian-American  who is bespectacled and married and clearly respects Steve. He was in that same Delta convoy that day in a truck right behind Steve. He tells you a little part of the story that Steve doesn't tell. Shock or no shock, Steve didn't fold at all.  After being blown out of his truck he snapped back in seconds. He did the best and most sensible thing he could in the situation. He was down in that crater with his M-16 rifle, ready to fire.  He was ready for the ambush that never came...

 

On the muddy road we pass the rusted skeleton of an old French tank. When the tall elephant grass ends we see mortar pits, big guns and tents in a great clearing where the French once built a trench fortress at the bottom of jungle peaks. Steve lights a 'straight' cigarette and parks in the mud near a big tent. We made it.

 

"Let's face it," Steve says, "the grunts over here are the lowest of the low. Nobody except their mothers cares about them.  The best thing for them is to do their job and not let their mind get in a bind."

 

Steve sees some buddies and gets you a beer.  Later they go into a small hootch for a smoke.

 

 

                                                  

 

                 

 

 

 

Steel Pot in a Marijuana Convoy

(Vietnam Legacy Project)

 

The Saigon Post, September 18, 1971

 

ETCETERA,,,,

 

Steel Pot in a Marijuana Convoy

               by

                  Daniel Cameron

 

                         PART 1

 

On the road in Vietnam

 

Riding convoy on the main paved highway is all right, so far. The dirt road coming later is what you think about. To reach the Firebase you  travel through ten klicks of  first-class ambush country along that dirt road. The mud and dirt will be good for mines, too.

 

Outside the main gate of the base camp, along the big paved highway, the vehicles are lined up, ready to go. Everybody has a weapon, a steel pot and a flak jacket.  The machine gun jeep up ahead is ready to give the signal. The morning sun is getting hotter and heavier. You're riding shotgun in a deuce-and-a-half truck with a 19-year old Spec 4 named Steve. He is friendly, a little jumpy and nervous, and in his way very innocent.

 

You don't expect him to spring a joint on you right out here on the road. Steve comes from a Chicago blue collar family, a strictly non-hippie background, you might say. He seems very young, but not without a certain maturity. He knows about ambushes and mines from personal experience. Acne blemishes parts of his face and his turned-up nose.  He swears he never had those pimples till coming in-country.

 

Steve drives this supply truck every day---mornings out to the Firebase, afternoons back to base camp.  He goes home in two months. His manner of talking is jumpy and intense.

 

"Some guys count each day," he says, reaching for the rolled joint in his pocket. "Not me. It's better not to think about it, not get your mind in a bind. I just do my job and try to hang loose with the lifers."

 

At the wheel he gestures. He says something cheerful, as though concerned for your welfare. "Want a drag?"

 

No, you didn't smoke this early in the morning, but thanks anyway.

 

He seems disappointed, but just a little. Despite his unsophisticated working class background, a certain politeness or innate discretion keeps him from asking whether you really smoke the weed or not. He tends to be jumpy and restless, but you find him sympathetic.

 

Up ahead the jeep escort with machine gun decides everything is ready. The motors of seven two-and-a-half ton trucks roar. G.I.'s insert ammo clips into automatic rifles. Some hastily finish a can of cola.

 

Steve holds back from lighting up until well after the convoy starts rolling. You don't know whether anyone else in the other vehicles is smoking 'grass' on this trip. Maybe yes, maybe no. Many are smoking what look like conventional cigarettes.

 

Forty klicks, or kilometers, to the Firebase in the forest. The highway here is well-paved and full of military traffic, motorbikes and three-wheeled Lambretta mini-buses that carry Vietnamese civilians. The convoy's first thirty kilometers will run along this good highway. It's considered secure by daylight. There are no commercial billboards around here. One of the few signs is a message to the Viet Cong, calling on them to join the Government's chieu hoi program, i.e, to defect. You don't know whether the Viet Cong read that sign mainly by day or at night.

 

When the convoy halts for a short while, Steve lights up.

 

"Sure you don't want a drag?" he says, offering the joint.

 

You play the resisting square again. A sweet pungent odor  floats through the cab.

 

"Steve, the folks say they want to know why guys like you smoke it, especially in this kind of neighborhood."

 

"Man," Steve says, "you got to. I might go psycho if I didn't."

 

He says it in that nervous jumpy way, as if he's also trying to convince himself.

 

He is supposed to put on his steel pot and heavy flak jacket despite the heat. He doesn't. That would be too hot, stifling, uncomfortable.

 

"The Army has all kinds of stupid regulations," he says. "Nobody can hack it all. Not me, anyway."

 

You've heard about stupid Army regulations, but you're not sure that this is one of them. Your own helmet feels too heavy and umcomfortable, but you keep it right up there, on your head.

 

The last ten klicks will be mud, off the highway and into the woods. It can never be as secure as a paved highway. But that's still far away. Right now the only pot Steve wants is the kind you smoke. We have to raise our voices because of the grueling motor noise. Everything in the Army seems extra noisy. Steve holds the big steering wheel with one hand and reaches for his steel helmet. He sets it between us, suddenly remembering something. He turns it upside down so that it's like a bowl. He puts two grenades in the 'bowl'. These are six-second hand frags.

 

"Know how to use these?" he says, as though looking out for your welfare.

 

You get a ten-second refresher course. You listen and watch carefully.

 

Behind us in the truck is a little old mama-san, laughing. Some other Vietnamese folk are in there with her, crowded and snuggled against the supplies. Her head is pressed aganst the opening in the truck's cab. She works out at the Firebase. Mama-san no smoke pot, Mama-san chew betel nut. She smiles and eyes us, her face in a mild betel-nut glaze from the strong mixture. Red juice from what she's chewing stains her mouth and gold teeth. She smiles that big gold-toothed smile and talks to us. She talks as though we can understand what she's saying. Then she breaks out in an impish Vietnamese giggle.

 

Steve hollers above the noise. "Stop your playing, Mama-san, and give us some chocolate milk."

 

Steve puts away his unfinished joint, tries to watch the road, grapple with the gear stick and make her understand, all at the same time. Mama-san seems to understand. She gropes around, finally comes up with two quart cartons of chocolate milk. She puts them through the opening for us and giggles again.

 

It's cold, but how to drink it in this vibrating monster vehicle? We shake, rattle and sip. Will have to wait till the convoy stops again.

 

Soon it stops and we don't know why.  They don't tell us anything. Somebody might have spotted something in the rubber trees, or in that banana grove. Maybe the LOACH helicopter radioed something to the RTO. Maybe it's just part of a start-stop pattern. Nobody tells us. But Steve decides to put on his flak jacket and stand his rifle upright against his door.   You hope he's not stoned.

 

(To be continued) 

 

                                

 

 

www.gringoman.com
Escaping Politically Correct

Saigon Notes: C'est La Guerre

[Vietnam Legacy Project. Details at July 4 post.]

The Saigon Post, March 19, 1971

 

          Saigon Notes

               by

                     Daniel Cameron

 

       C'EST LA GUERRE

 

Quang Tri

 

A steady cold drizzle here. Press Camp fairly active. Bedding, satisfactory. Food, tolerable, if you're the tolerant sort. The trips out to Khe Sanh through the foggy mountains interesting. Best of all, the phone lines to Saigon worked.

 

Several days after arriving, this reporter left. A diligent Lieutenant discovered that we had been doing our work on the basis of a Vietnamese press card instead of a MACV (Military Advisory Command Vietnam) one.

 

          ON VISITING LAOS

 

Khe Sanh

 

Ham Nghi, three Klicks south of Khe Sanh proper, is the site of the Vietnamese headquarters for the operations in Laos. News people who want to get into Laos are brought here in US helicopters from Quang Tri. Most, so far, haven't made it into Laos.

 

The danger, the often dark skies, the shortage of Vietnamese helicopters are only part of the reasons why. One of the most important reasons is connected with a new ruling which has come down all the way from Secretary of Defense Laird himself.

 

This Laotian affair marks the first time that newsmen are allowed to visit the scene of important operations only on a specially assigned "Press"  helicopter. On the surface, it seems considerate to make this Press chopper available every day. In practice, so far, it means you're not likely to get into Laos.

 

Things were different last May and June in Cambodia. You showed up at Press Headquarters in Tay Ninh. If the Press helicopter had already left, or if there wasn't any, you waited around for anything on a space available basis. You were welcome to an empty seat in most anything flying into Cambodia. It was understood that a newsman, as an adult, took his chances as he saw fit. This custom also allowed him to avoid press parties (or packs). He was able to get around and exercise intitiative, enterprise and other things that used to be associated with good journalism.

 

One of the subtle effects of the new ruling for  Laos has to do with its creating a certain conflict between the newsmen and the helicopter pilots. These pilots already have their hands full in flying normal military missions into Laos. One of the most professional newsmen told me that some pilots don't like the idea of having to fly a hazardous mission exclusively for the press.

 

"And I don't really blame them,"  he said.

 

The new ruling for Laos might conceivably keep some correspondents from getting themselves killed, as well as from getting first-hand information. On the other hand, forcing them to travel only in relatively large groups could contribute to increasing the media fatalities. If the helicopter is hit, you may lose a lot of people all at once. That's what happened in February when four, including famed (LIFE Magazine) photographer Larry Burrows, all went down in Laos, fatally.

 

Luckily it didn't happen on March 12 when a US helicopter took three bullet holes over Landing Zone Lolo in Laos. The chopper turned back and was able to land safely in Quang Tri. It was carrying six civilian correspondents.

 

 

 

 

 

SAIGON NOTES: Talking Grunt Blues

The Saigon Post, Dec. 25, 1970

 

SAIGON NOTES

 

     Talking Grunt Blues

 

(Time: About a year ago during a lull in Red offensive. Place: A Special Forces camp, full of  shrapnel holes, near the Cambodian border. The young gunners of Charley Battery were a separate unit from SF, and sometimes at odds with them. They pointed out, for example, that SF  could stay inside its bunkers during rocket and mortar attacks. Charley Battery had to be out in the open, manning the guns, returning fire.) 

        

                   *

The medic wears Montagnard bracelets. "The 'Yards say if you remove your bracelets you may remove your luck."

                   *

Hot dinners were flown in. "Not so hot, but better than we expected."

 

                   *

"We used to have fun with the Montagnard kids. Then the little girl took shrapnel in the stomach one day. The kids are all evacuated now."

                    *

The pregnant Vietnamese woman in white pajamas follows her soldier mate down into their bunker near the barbed wire.

                     *

The old Montagnard 'Pop' wears jungle fatigues and enjoys his pipe. He points at the tobacco and smiles intelligently.

 

"Tabac Ban Me Thuot. C'est bien."

                     *

"Captain Coleman, our XO, came out with our paychecks one  afternoon when he had two weeks left in-country. He said he wouldn't ever do a crazy thing like that again. We took a mortar attack that same afternoon. The Captain died in my lap, right over there."

                      *

Colonel Sam, who used to teach literature at Saigon University, now commands the Vietnamese Rangers. He is paunchy and polite, but tough.  A Vietcong rocket once tore into his home where his wife and seven children lived.

 

"But I already build bunker for them. I teach them what to do. Rocket no harm them."

                   *

Special Forces Captain Palmer, who used to work in a Memphis bank, "One night a rocket would have finished off all seven of us in the Team if it came just three feet closer. That must be luck."

                     *

With a book, the young gunner is sitting off by himself under a howitzer facing Cambodia. The book is Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf.

 

"Hard to get good books around here, so I have some sent to me."

                    *

Cilenti makes a succulent pot of spaghettis in the SF bunker, adds clams to the sauce. "Man, smell that prevolone."

 

"We're adopting you, Wop."

 

"Hold on, Babe. Don't you mean I'm adopting you?"

                    *

Sergeant Brock says he knew the Green Berets when they were elite. He wants to put .105 rounds out there in the highland dusk.

 

"Ceasefire, hell!  Everybody knows they use it to get themselves re-supplied and re-grouped."

 

He plans to go to Saigon one day next week and see a woman.

                    *

"My grandaddy carried this flag as an Army dentist, WW I.  My Daddy carried it 36 months in the Pacific as a Navy pilot, WW II. I'm the last of the Potter line. Either I bring this flag home or the line ends with me."

                    *

In the SF bunker Lt. Turney's dark mustache droops. Oddly, he looks like a Middle East money changer in need of sleep. He sits down, eyelids drooping. Rat traps are set in the kitchen. A girl-famished Private jokes about sheep. Lt. Turney cracks a walnut and sips coffee. He mumbles something sleepily.

 

"All right, Merry Christmas, guys."