A Different Light: The Vietnam War from a Woman's Point of View

By Jennifer Thomas

A Different Light is a first-person novel written from the pages of the authors diary during her years tour of duty in Da Nang, Vietnam from October 1967 to October 1968. Hired by the Red Cross, she worked on the III Marine Amphibious Force, headquarters for the First and Third Marine Divisions. There she delivered hundreds of death-and-disaster messages as well as being available 24/7 for emotional support during a war no one understood. Long hours at work and exposure to the Wars ugliness at its height proved to be costly on her stamina and compassion. She saw death, decay, beauty and newness, first love and hate, and marveled at the extremes all lived under. She witnessed survival tactics used by civilians, the military and even herself in a thankless, unappreciated, poorly run and ultimately, forsaken war. Everyone was confused by the Wars politics, lack of emotional support from home, the inability to get ahead and the ultimate sacrifices so many gave for what was thought as Freedom for the Oppressed. It was time to grow up. Jenny was born in Southern California in 1944. Life was normal for her and her two brothers but when her mother died when Jenny was three years old, life became bleak at the hands of the wicked stepmother of the West. Graduation from Hi School in 1962, college in 1966 with a Sociology degree, Jenny volunteered to work as a counselor and bookkeeper for the Red Cross. She spent six months in Southern California, a year in Vietnam, nine months in San Francisco, two years in Germany and finally back to work on a Naval Base in the Pacific Northwest. Here she found love for the beautiful ever-green countryside, the marine atmosphere of Puget Sound and a Navy man. Now married for thirty-eight years, she has three handsome sons, three beautiful daughters-in-law and three adorable grandchildren. Jenny loves her family, horses, fishing, boating, the mountains, and the saltwater. She remains active in her community by selling real estate as well as reading, working in her garden, and making new friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453505274

Jennifer Thomas

I'm now a Best Selling Author in the Romance category, and I should point out that I write erotic romance that is really for adults only. I grew up mostly in Southern Florida and moved to New York as soon as I turned 18. I have a vivid imagination and that's where most my stories come from. A few are from dreams that were so real I could remember them all day, and a couple are somewhat based on my own experiences with the names (and a few other things) changed to protect us both. Most of all I'm a (fairly) young, romantic girl who loves fantasy, sweets, sex and writing (but not in that order)! When I get my own juices flowing while I'm working on a story, that's when I'm pretty certain my readers will get hot and bothered too!

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Copyright © 2010 by Jennifer Thomas.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010904879

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4535-0526-7

Softcover 978-1-4535-0525-0

Ebook 978-1-4535-0527-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

77626

It is with my greatest respect, admiration and gratitude I dedicate this book to all the Vietnam Veterans, both living and deceased as well as all the Veterans and active duty Military members who’ve put their lives on the line for our Freedom in this beautiful land we call America.

I love and admire you all!!!

Jenny

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Dawn

Chapter 2 The Forgotten Innocents

Chapter 3 Smile—War is Hell

Chapter 4 An

Chapter 5 Silent Night

Chapter 6 Wendy

Chapter 7 Moving Awareness

Chapter 8 TET 1968

Chapter 9 Incoming

Chapter 10 Second Wind

Chapter 11 The Forgotten World

Chapter 12 One Step at a Time

Chapter 13 The Yen Bai Shuffle

Chapter 14 Mat, Marc, Lou and Jon

Chapter 15 Freedom Bird

CHAPTER 1

DAWN

It was like a morgue on the plane, very few saying little and most of us saying nothing; we were lost in thoughts about the immediate future. I, too, was pensive, too naive to even think about coming home in a body bag. It was an adventure to me, one that would produce more questions than answers. It was 1967; I was barely twenty-two and so young and immature.

It felt, looked and sounded like any other commercial flight preparing for takeoff, but one look around and I knew differently. The World Airlines 707 was loaded to capacity with 99% of the passengers G.I.’s wearing green combat fatigues, their faces sober and concerned. My blue pin-striped uniform dress was a sharp contrast to the sea of green around me.

Waves of emotion, tension and uncertainty traversed my inner core setting my nerves on edge and the pit of my stomach in tight knots. I wasn’t sure I’d made the right choice, but here I was and I’d be damned if I backed out now. I’d been a quitter once and the feeling had been totally abhorrent. Fear of failure was my driving force.

I nervously picked at my freshly painted fingernails as I listened to the jet engines warming up one by one. My heart was in my throat, I could barely breathe. It had been cool on the tarmac line but inside flight #W-243 must have been 103 degrees. From the plane’s window I could still see Bob standing by the fence watching our plane prepare for departure. He’d been such a good friend the four days I’d been at Travis AFB. I had known no one, felt shy and had wanted to dig a hole and climb in. I could remember being horror-struck that first morning four days earlier when I entered the military cafeteria for breakfast. I hated eating alone and yet the cafeteria was filled with a thousand staring eyes. Not a single table was unoccupied. Bob offered the empty chair at his table; I was embarrassed and uneasy sitting with a total stranger, but his warmth and gentle mannerisms put me at ease. During those few days at Travis Air Base he made me feel special; a new and welcome feeling for me.

His good-bye kiss moments before boarding my plane had momentarily taken my breath away, its warmth and sincerity still lingered on my lips. It was good and I felt good about myself. It was a new feeling, one I wanted to learn more about.

Suddenly the plane lurched as the four jet engines pushed us toward the runway. I frantically waved goodbye to Bob but I doubted he could see me in my small identical airplane window. The year ahead was uncertain, I wondered if I would ever see Bob again. Deep down I knew.

The plane rolled to a stop at the head of the runway. The whine from its engines increased in intensity until finally the plane lunged forward, snapping our head’s back hard against the seat. My mounting apprehension accelerated simultaneously with the plane’s speed for take-off. ‘Oh No!’ my mind screamed. My eyes wildly darted about the plane’s interior. No one seemed overly concerned. Everyone’s eye’s registered quiet resignation, knowing their fates were in God’s hands now.

As the wheels left the runway I wanted to scream, ‘No, turn this baby around. I want to get off!’ No one heard me, but my ears rang from my inner fear.

The Captain’s voice came over the loud speaker. Flight time to Anchorage will be approximately 4-1/2 hours. Relax and enjoy your flight. Thank you.

Right on time we touched down onto a frosty, cold runway. Alaska time, 2140 hours, only 40 minutes since leaving Travis: I forgot about time changes.

Look at the beautiful city lights reflecting off the cloud cover, the Army nurse sitting next to me exclaimed. I turned my attention to the beautiful rotating reflections.

It’s the Aurora Borealis! the stewardess explained as she came down the aisle. I marveled at the Aurora’s beauty. Oranges, reds and whites flickered in waving currents across the sky like a large silk scarf flapping, slow motion, in the breeze.

Another seven and a half hours to Yokota and still no sun. I mumbled. I was getting irritable due to lack of sleep.

Yeah, and my ankles are starting to swell, the nurse added. Wish we had more leg room. We smiled at each other, acknowledging our common miseries, secretly hoping we could stretch in Yokota. We did, for about an hour.

Fifteen hours from Travis, daylight finally dawned. It’s 1400 hours, the 25th of October on my watch, but in Saigon it’s barely dawn on the 26th. ‘What happened to the 25th?’, I wondered.

In the dawn’s faint light an iridescent green land stretched out as far as I could see. A huge river snaked its way through velvety green carpets as if to offer a kinship with the numerous little square lakes. Were they rice paddies? Darker green fields alternated with lighter green squares which finally gave way to brown and tan patches with buildings as a centerpiece. Soon the tan patches melted into an endless sea of homes and buildings, small at first but as we dropped in altitude the structures grew in size and height. So did the immense size of Saigon; it seemed to stretch for miles in all directions. ‘How could a small little backward country like Vietnam have such a huge city like Saigon?’ I thought.

Suddenly the plane dropped out from under me. In shock, I looked at the G.I. across the aisle, glad the seat belts held.

Sniper fire! he said, nonchalantly.

What?

Fuckin’ sniper fire, he repeated. The plane has to keep a high altitude as long as possible. Gooks are at either end of the runway.

Oh, I breathed, not totally reassured by his answer. Sounds like you’ve done this before!

Second tour!

Was that your idea?

Hell, no! he sneered. He looked tired. Not from the fifteen hour flight but probably more from the realization of what the next 365 days held for him.

The plane literally dropped from the sky, landed and taxied over to the Tan Son Nhut terminal. The doors opened to Vietnam, my first breath of fresh air after fifteen hours of flight.

0745 hours. The air was cool but the humidity was thick and the smell hit me hard. The moisture seemed to intensify the stench. The further I walked across the flight line the damper I got. The stench creeped up my legs by inches. By the time I reached the terminal I felt completely soaked in humidity, nervous sweat and filth. I felt like I smelled like a porta-potty. The unsanitary conditions made me realize what being in Vietnam really meant. My olfactory senses rebelled and my stomach churned. My first awakening was traumatic.

‘How did I ever get myself into this mess?’ I stood in the middle of the teeming Saigon terminal feeling horrendously filthy, extremely tired, irritable and helplessly alone. ‘Not one familiar face or uniform,’ I cried mentally as my eyes frantically searched the crowd. It was that heartbreaking T.V. documentary I saw the year before about Marines aiding Vietnam orphanages. Once again I let my heart overrule my better judgment but I’d been mesmerized by the film. My motherly instincts sprang forward at the pitiful sight of these poor pathetic creatures. My heart ached for them. Life had dealt them a cruel hand for some were half Caucasian, others black, while still more were Mexican-American and all half Vietnamese to some extent. All were neglected, unloved and unwanted. I knew I had to do something. I resented my step-mom for never having allowed me to baby-sit as a young girl; I would have been better prepared.

Numerous agencies had been explored. Only one would send me to Vietnam without any long-term commitments. I applied, was hired and after six weeks of basic training I emerged as a bookkeeper and counselor for the American National Red Cross. The six months of on-the-job training at Norton Air Force Base in California had literally flown by. Before I knew it, I was on this World Airlines Flight #W-243 bound for South Vietnam.

Excuse me, Ma’am. Uh, Ma’am, can I help you?

I turned abruptly in my tracks to see yet another G.I. wearing green combat fatigues. This one had a black helmet and black armband with the white initials ‘M.P.’ printed on it. He was carrying an angry-looking M-16 in his hand. The sight of the rifle startled me. I meekly told him I was lost. He showed me where I could clear through customs, where to pick up my baggage and where to have my passport and immunization records checked. What an ordeal! I also had to have all my American money changed into Military Pay Certificates (MPC’s) and piasters (Vietnamese money). The exchange rate for piasters was 119 P’s to one American MPC or dollar. The MP called the main Red Cross office and Mr. Zollman arrived to rescue me from my confused state and soothe my sense of abandonment.

The ride across town was my second traumatic experience. Transportation was a little foreign station wagon held together by bailing wire. It did run, I’ll say that, and the young Vietnamese driver drove it as if there were heat-seeking rockets bearing down on its exhaust pipes. In route I wanted to see everything; the scenery, landscape, architecture, people, animals and garbage but I could only keep my eyes glued to the traffic and my fingernails buried deep into the upholstery of the seat in front of me. There was an array of moving obstacles; peddle carts, horses, water buffalo, man-drawn wagons, bicycles, motorized bikes, Hondas and cars of all shapes, sizes and colors and not one traffic law was observed. Red traffic lights were ignored, cars moved on the wrong side of the streets and up on the sidewalks. Traffic was like a line of ants after a pebble had been dropped on it.

‘I wondered in amazement how Mr. Zollman could sit there, so calm, and talking as fast as the Vietnamese man was driving,’ Mr. Zollman must have read my thoughts.

You get used to the traffic after awhile and it becomes second nature!

What do you mean by ‘awhile’? I inquired, clinging desperately to the seat and car door handle for support.

I’ve been here in Area Headquarters for seven and a half months. It’s not a bad assignment. It’s relatively quiet, not many rocket attacks, not like they get up North anyway.

He was an older man in his mid-50’s, slender, with grey hair and steel blue eyes. He told me he was from Wichita, Kansas; had a wife and three kids. One of his kids was married, one was in college and the youngest a senior in high school. He had retired from the Air Force as a sergeant after 24 years in service; he just wasn’t ready to completely stop traveling yet. He was pleasant to talk to and his relaxed presence eased my tensions during the trip across town.

Well, here we are, the Meyerchord Hotel, he said as the car came to a screeching halt in front of a squarely built structure. Each of its eight stories had an exterior balcony, which used vertical beams for support, giving a square beehive effect. Originally the hotel had been painted white, but with mold and the war, the color was now debatable. A rolled barbed wire fence surrounded the perimeter with an opening for a gate and guard shack at the hotel’s main entrance. Placed strategically around the exterior of the fence were fifty gallon drums filled with cement to prevent Viet Cong operated vehicles loaded with explosives from ramming the building. There wasn’t much greenery around the hotel; a few banana trees perhaps. On the other side of the road were larger evergreen trees.

Confiscated by the military for transient quarters, the building was far from plush. The floors were rolled linoleum and the plastered walls had a greenish wainscoting. Ceilings were high with fans that ran constantly.

I quickly learned to live with three major problems within the hotel. The building leaked. It didn’t matter if I was on the fourth floor or the first, the ceiling leaked anyway—over the bed or into open suitcases; nothing was sacred. Second, when and if you had water in the bathroom, it was always cold and the worst were the lizards, millions of them! I shuddered at the thought of sharing my bed with one but the little old Vietnamese maid in her broken English was quick to assure me, Better to have lizards than cockroaches! Yes? I quickly agreed. I hated bugs!

Take the rest of the day off, Mr. Zollman said. You need to adjust to your new surroundings, the weather and the time change. I concurred; I was exhausted. It was past my accustomed bedtime yet it was only two o’clock in the afternoon. I took a shower which did no good, drank water until I felt bloated and finally crashed at 1800 hours for the next twelve hours. I awoke rested in spite of the WWII steel bunk and thin mattress on which I slept. The bunk creaked and groaned at every muscle twitch but by six the next morning I was ready to start my first day in Nam.

Breakfast was dried, reconstituted eggs with water oozing from them but the coarsely ground toasted French wheat bread and coffee tasted good. It was over my first Nam breakfast that I met Dottie Hayler again. It felt so good to see a familiar face. We soon discovered that our first 24 hours in country had been pretty much the same.

Dottie and I had been hired by the Red Cross in San Francisco on the same day. We shared the same room during our six weeks of basic training at Fort Ord, Monterey, California and, ultimately, shared our life histories, some secrets and, subsequently, became good friends. A couple of years older than I, she wasn’t pretty but she had a warm, pleasant face, gentle smile and an aura of self-assurance which radiated from her every pore. I was immediately envious.

She told me she was born in a small town in Nevada but grew up in Sacramento, California. She came from a loving family, had two younger brothers and parents who were totally dedicated to each other and the family. I, too, came from California but I had a Dad who seemed like he was never there, a vicious stepmother, an abusive stepbrother, a real brother who hit me all the time and a younger brother I adored. I wanted to tell Dottie about my life as a kid but the pain once again seemed to envelope me before I could utter a single word. My insides just crumbled. I learned to like Dottie but our friendship was gradual. She was cautious about making friends; she wanted her friendships to be genuine. I subconsciously needed her friendship but I feared losing it even before I had attained it. I could not cope with loneliness. Dottie eased my loneliness. We spent a lot of time together.

Mr. Zollman picked us up at 0900. Area Headquarters for the Red Cross was a single story, bullet-ridden, moth-eaten, moldy, old house which had been painted white at one time. It had green shutters at the windows and green-screened doors, both matched the green mold that was halfway up the walls. The house was U-shaped, with a large courtyard in back and Silk and Magnolia trees everywhere. The house had a French flavor to it. Before the annual monsoons and neglect from years of war, it had been pretty.

Dottie and I joined three more Red Cross FNG’s. (Fuckin New Guys) We were led out back into the courtyard where a small table and chairs had been placed under the trees. Here we got the facts!

The reason we’re in Vietnam is as a support team for the military, Mr. Norris Calhoun began. He had already bid us good morning and welcomed us ‘In-Country’ as he introduced people around the table.

We have almost a half million troops here now and our meager 350 Red Cross workers seems puny by comparison. The military are here for two major reasons. One, to hopefully stop the Communist aggression from spreading, and two, to train, educate, and help the Vietnamese people get back on their feet and preserve their culture.

Mr. Calhoun was a quiet sort of man with an easy way about him which made me feel instantly comfortable. He was short with a small frame, in his early 30’s, had black hair and dark eyes. His clothes were neatly starched and pressed. I wondered if he ever sweated. He had an English name but with his black hair and slightly slanted eyes suggested he might have some Oriental ancestry. He was one of our Area Directors.

Although we aren’t directly involved in the fight against Communist aggression, we do take part when needed in the self-help programs being sponsored by the military, he said. Schools, temples, hospitals, homes and hamlets are being rebuilt. Skills in the field, village, home and war front are being taught and, in some cases, re-implemented in the hopes these people can pick up the slack and carry on without us. He stressed both a physical and psychological approach to combating Communism. It was great to hear it wasn’t all blood and guts.

Mr. Calhoun continued. It’s our job to assist wherever possible and try and make life a little easier for our boys while they’re away from home. As you know, the field offices take care of the emergency communications between the servicemen and their home, his emergency financial needs as well as counseling and guidance when applicable. You that are assigned to the military hospitals do pretty much the same thing. Our Service Recreational Activities Overseas (SRAO) program has about sixty gals working to provide recreational programs out in the field to guys who can’t get in to base camps. If for no other reason, the men seem to enjoy talking to a ‘round-eyed’ woman for awhile. Mr. Calhoun smiled and added, There’s just not that many of you gals over here, ya know! I admitted the idea of so many men available was positively thought-provoking. I hadn’t dated much in High School.

He explained the Red Cross’s efforts to implement the terms of the Geneva Convention. Fair treatment of our POW’s in North Vietnam wasn’t going well at all and the resistance to the terms was still being challenged. He reiterated the self-help program by emphasizing actions speak louder than words. He reminded us that as United States citizens we had a moral duty to follow the rules and regulations set forth by both the United States and the South Vietnamese governments. Proper behavior on our part and respectful treatment of the South Vietnamese people would greatly reduce the tools for propaganda, enhance our safety as well as reputation and, hopefully, speed up our overall objectives. We should assume a low profile at all costs, never stand out in crowds, and avoid attracting attention. ‘How is that possible for me?’ I wondered, ‘with my long blonde hair and round blue eyes?’

One other thing, Mr. Calhoun concluded, we really don’t know who the enemy is. He could be the barber, or your maid, and in the next minute they may try to stick a knife in your back. Disquieting thought. The North and South Vietnamese are the same race of people, just different ideas on how the Country’s Government should run. So be careful and keep your own security uppermost in your mind.

We are assigning you to the III Marine Amphibious Force Headquarters in DaNang, Mr. Calhoun told me after the meeting. It’s the headquarters for both the First and Third Marine Divisions; consequently your new office is the headquarters for all the smaller support Red Cross offices in the DaNang area. You’ll be working for a Mr. Walter Lindstrom. Each office is responsible for their own case work. You will be responsible for the $40,000.00 revolving fund. It’s a new account, the balance will eventually be increased but it’ll be your job to set up the bookkeeping initially." I hoped I could live up to his high expectations. I felt a strong sense of responsibility with my assignment.

‘DaNang.’ The name sounded familiar. ‘Is there lots of enemy activity up there?’ I pondered. I was excited, ready to jump into the unknown, to get my feet wet and start experiencing my year-long adventure.

What assignment did you get? I asked Dottie later.

I got DaNang, too. They’ve assigned me to the Air Force Base.

That’s great! Maybe we’ll get to see each other often.

Hey, you two; take the rest of the day off. You’ve got to be back here tomorrow for the dull part, you know, the paper work. Then on Saturday, the 28th, we’ve made arrangements for you to fly up to DaNang at 0945 hours. And if you two don’t have a hot date yet, how about a quick tour around Saigon tomorrow?" Mr. Zollman added.

Great! I answered. Dottie declined.

We have the rest of the day off. How about us taking our own little tour? OK? I encouraged.

OK! Dottie said, one way to learn the culture.

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Saigon was once known as the Paris of the East. Its architecture depicted remnants of the affluent French, with a decidedly Oriental/Vietnamese influence. However, time, negligence, humidity, population explosion and war had turned the city into a rat infested, disgusting quagmire. Buildings were falling apart due to excessive filth and moisture. Mold and decay was everywhere; on the walls, in the buildings, on the streets and in the gutters. The stench was horrible, and the odor overpowering. And the flies were as big as America’s honey bees and twice as aggressive.

The middle and lower class people lived in shanties made with steel siding, cardboard boxes, stucco or boards; whatever they could find. I quickly learned the people were simple with few wants and needs and one common goal—survival. It took very little to create a smile, a laugh or absolute bedlam. They were basic; siestas on the sidewalk from noon to 1400, relieving themselves in the street gutters for all to see, in someone else’s garden, on a light pole or on the busiest street corner in Saigon. Young children ran around without pants and mothers breast-fed their babies where and whenever necessary without any thought toward modesty.

Their lifestyle’s seemed surreal. Instead of merchandise systematically lined up inside on display shelves, their shelves were adjacent to the sidewalk, or at times, displayed on a blanket directly on the sidewalk. Merchandise sold was everything from food to hardware. The food sold was questionable. They sold parts of animals that we normally threw away. I quit asking questions or peering over the railing to see what they offered because it was not the kind of goodies I would eat.

We barely returned to the hotel before the heaviest rainstorm I’d ever seen commenced. It rained so hard it was like a thick fog. I had difficulty breathing.

Later, when the deluge had passed, we joined two other Red Crossers for dinner in a fairly nice French restaurant. I had fish wrapped in crepes and white wine. I needed a little more time before trying Vietnamese cuisine. For dessert we opted for a tour of a huge Old Catholic Cathedral.

Saigon’s cathedral had two tall spirals on either side of the arched double front doors which rose high into the sky. It was built of roughly made red bricks, the cathedral’s windows arched beneath a single common pitched roof high above the sanctuary. In a very small way the exterior reminded me of the little old English churches found back in New England but the inside was totally familiar.

It was ancient inside. It smelled, looked and felt old. The altar was carved white marble, dirty from time and dampness. On top of the altar was a large statue of the Virgin Mary. Back home the Virgin Mary would have been placed to the right of the altar and a crucifix would have hung above the altar. Here the crucifix was dangling high in the cathedral ceiling. It was a huge piece of wood half the size of a man, blackened by the passage of years, the ever-present moisture and candle smoke. I wondered if the church had electricity. There were no visible lights, only candles, a few lit by those saying prayers. The interior was dark, cool and smelled damp, much like the inside of a cave deep inside a mountain. Due to the elements and time, all the colors; the reds, blues, purples and greens, had faded into one common color, a dusty yellow. Even the flowers were wilted, dropping their heads and petals. Plastic flower bouquets denoted a touch of modernization but even these were losing their color and were camouflaged under dust and spider webs. The whole place smelled of resignation.

There was an endless sea of pews. I surmised there were a hundred or more rows of these small, straight-backed benches with no padding, warmth or personality. The kneelers were bare wood and about the size of railroad timbers which threatened to cut your knees in half the moment you put your weight on them. The wood had turned so dark it was like expensive black mahogany, but I knew better.

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As Dottie and I strolled from the stillness of the cathedral into the busy, noisy and dirty streets of Saigon, I wondered how many people took refuge in the church to regain their sanity rather than talk to God.

The next day was spent at headquarters filling out more forms. The paperwork seemed endless. We were then issued a set of dog tags on a long chain which we were to wear at all times. They had a little notch in one corner which confused me. What’s this notch for? I asked.

Mr. Calhoun looked a little sheepish but he answered, In case you’re killed, they put that little notch in between your two upper middle teeth and kick it into place. The tag serves as an I.D. for your body.

Oh! I was stunned into silence. ‘Was he kidding?’

Next came the issuance of two non-combatant I.D. cards; ‘one for me and one for the Viet Cong in case I’m captured. ‘Real cute!’ I thought indignantly.

That evening I went motorcycle riding with Mr. Zollman in and around Saigon. He drove as madcap as the Vietnamese driver did that first day, using the philosophy, If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em. One felt a little silly sitting at a red stoplight watching everyone else buzz right on by. So we joined them. We zipped in and out of traffic, down the sidewalks when necessary, into the oncoming lanes and through most red traffic lights. We munched on sugar cane in one hand and hot French bread in the other which I fed Mr. Zollman while he drove. He reminded me of my Dad.

We were greeted by kids playing or fighting in the streets, solicited by mobile marketers, older women carrying two large baskets hanging one on each end of a long pole, stretched and balanced across their shoulders as they walked. We were approached by beggars expecting, hoping, for hand-outs. Men and women of all ages stared at me. It was apparent they weren’t accustomed to seeing American women, especially one with long, yellow hair. I was beginning to feel different.

When we returned to the Meyerchord, I climbed eight flights of stairs to the roof where I met Dottie. I’d like to say I used the stairs by choice but, actually, the elevator wasn’t working.

Hi! I sputtered, totally out of breath.

Have a great ride? Dottie asked.

Yeh, but gripping that Honda for three hours gave me leg cramps. The stairs took care of that problem. I was getting my breath back slowly. You know, I can’t get over the filthy conditions over here. The smell is just awful!

I know, Dottie agreed. I figured it would be dirty, but not this bad. I walked around a little right after I arrived and I just couldn’t get used to it. And while I was walking past this one house a little boy threw a rock at me. Gee, he couldn’t have been more than six years old. He meant to throw it too! He scared me!

Maybe his Dad is a Viet Cong. She wasn’t amused. I gave her a quick one-armed hug and changed the subject. I can’t believe the size of Saigon, can you? I questioned, gestering out across the city from the rooftop railing. There was nothing but rooftops as far as we could see; mostly red roofs atop white buildings. Some buildings were one-story, others as high as ten stories with pitched red roofs while the others were flat. Roads were two and four lanes, some paved, some only dirt. Many of the streets, like spokes on a wheel, came to a center where there was a large fountain. I again marveled at the city’s suggestion of a beauty long since abandoned.

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"We saw the Presidential Palace