Chau and the Cia Ladies: A Memoir of the Tet Offensive

By Jim Ogle

The Hungarian Countess, the Czech Generals daughter, the lady parachutist, the Phat Song of the Hoa Haosounds like a James Bond novel, but Jim Ogle is not James Bond, he is a rather Hamletian figure who was there, on the front line of the Cold War. This memoir takes you inside the American intelligence apparatus, and inside the psychological and philosophical labyrinth of one of its major players. Jim and his colleagues predicted the Tet Offensive with widely recognized timeliness and detail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479730872

Jim Ogle

Jim Ogle’s 32 years in various intelligence agencies included 16 years in the Central Intelligence Agency, of which two were spent in Vietnam at the turning point of the war. After resigning from the CIA Jim Ogle continued to work on contract for various intelligence agencies, his article in the Washington Post, “Will Computers Destroy the Soviet System?”1 November 1981, included the prediction “There can no longer be any doubt that within this decade, the Soviet bloc will be completely transformed.” He also worked as a hospice volunteer and as pastoral visitor for his Unitarian church. He continued his love affair with boats and mountains as long as health permitted. He still enjoys Platonic relationships with beautiful women.

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Copyright © 2012 by Jim Ogle.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012918926

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4797-3086-5

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4797-3085-8

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4797-3087-2

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Contents

CHAU AND THE CIA LADIES

PEARL HARBOR

THE TROJAN WOMEN

A SMALL TOWN IN AUSTRIA

THE EIGHTEENTH BRUMAIRE OF JIMMY OGLE

JOHN MARCUS AURELIUS WAYNE

FOR JENNIFER—MISTRESS, COMPANION,

NURSE—WHO CAN STILL LAUGH AFTER

FIFTY PLUS YEARS WITH ME

CHAU AND THE CIA LADIES

A memoir of the Tet Offensive, Vietnam, 1968

by James V. Ogle

[All statements of fact, opinion, or analysis expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the official positions or views of the CIA or any other US Government agency. Nothing in the contents should be construed as asserting or implying US Government authentication of information or Agency endorsement of the author’s views. This material has been reviewed by the CIA to prevent the disclosure of classified information.]

PEARL HARBOR

I was in country only two weeks when I drew night duty in the chief of station’s office. It was all new to me—operations in a hostile environment. I had been in the DDI (Deputy Directorate for Intelligence) for eleven years. I was a member of the intelligentsia, not the cowboys in the DDO (Deputy Directorate for Operations), but for what I think was the first time in history they had set up a largish DDI component in an overseas station. I was very wet behind the ears and they didn’t give me much help as they, the regular staff, filed out at the end of the work day.

There was a typed list of instructions taped to the secretary’s desk, just phone numbers—

"If there is a call for ‘Mike’ say he will call back and call Joe, X 111;

"If there is a call for ‘John’ say he will call back and call Roland, X 222;

"If there is a call for ‘Mary’ say she will call back and call Dorothy, X 333;

If you have to contact the chief of station call the following numbers in sequence: 123, 134, 145, and 156.

Those aren’t the real numbers, of course.

There was a cot in the office with an almost empty carton of C rations underneath. There was a backless (and frontless) paperback about the raid on Pearl Harbor on the cot. I looked around the office for a minute, not too carefully (I had learned one lesson well—don’t snoop, you can never know who’s watching, it might be a test), and picked up the backless paperback and settled in for a long, boring night.

I was half asleep at two AM when the code clerk came in: Eyes only for the Chief of Station.

What the hell? What was I supposed to do? Click, click, my senses returned—Yeah, call the Chief of Station. I sat up straight and started dialing—123, 134, 145. Not here, or no answer. I was down to 156. But I knew that number.

My problem, one of many as an erstwhile life-long virgin, is I am always falling in love, with the most