Like Another Lifetime In Another World

By Mike Shepherd

This is the story of Mick Scott, some of which is based on the author's Vietnam wartime experiences as an Air Force correspondent for Armed Forces Radio. In the fictionalized version of events, on his way to Vietnam, Scott is ordered to report to US Intelligence in San Francisco where he is recruited for a special assignment. It entails finding a Saigon street kid who is the long-lost son of a top North Vietnamese Communist official; perhaps Ho Chi Minh himself. Once found, intelligence hopes to use the kid as a pawn in peace negotiations. Meanwhile, Scott travels throughout Vietnam as a reporter, which provides a vehicle to impart what is happening in arguably the most pivotal year of the war; 1967-68, with the Tet Offensive as the catalytic episode. As the story progresses, he crosses paths with a double agent, and the infamous Panther Lady, who is riding around Saigon on a motorbike gunning down GIs. Along with them, the kid intelligence wants him to find, and his drinking buddy Bobby, Scott becomes entangled in a sticky web of intrigue and deceit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491729410

Mike Shepherd

Mike Shepherd is the author of Like Another Lifetime In Another World an historic fiction based on his experiences as a reporter for Armed Forces Radio in Vietnam in 1967 and ‘68. It too is available through iUniverse.com. Shepherd is a free-lance writer who lives in the country near Springfield, Illinois.

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CHAPTER 1

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The day before I left Illinois for San Francisco, where I was to catch a plane to Vietnam, I received a telegram from the Pentagon. It told me to report to an

Army intelligence officer named Colonel Roger Smith at the federal building in Frisco to be briefed on a special assignment for which I had become the prime candidate. I thought I was being sent to Nam as a combat correspondent for Armed Forces Radio, but apparently Uncle Sam had other plans.

At ease, Airman Scott, the colonel said when I walked into his office and stood at attention before the big desk he was sitting behind. The way he looked at me though, over the top of his glasses, I felt anything but at ease. His eyes were large; the whites of them anyway, like cue balls, but his pupils were small, dark and piercing.

He lifted one very bushy black eyebrow, which would have served him well as a toupee; Colonel Smith was mostly bald. He twisted his mouth and shook his head slightly in a way that made me think he didn’t particularly like what he saw.

Sit down, Airman, he ordered, and I did, in a wobbly little chair at the front of his desk. From the lowly position it put me in, the colonel’s bald head looked even larger, shining like the moon from the light above.

I’ll get right to the point, he said. That documentary you produced at Armed Forces Journalism and Defense Information School on intelligence gathering by operatives posing as foreign journalists in lands we’re at war with grabbed a lot of attention at the Pentagon. The colonel talked fast, and his voice was nasally and monotone, like a talking robot’s.

Consequently it’s made you the number one candidate for a special assignment that could help us put an end to this war, on our terms, and soon.

He rocked back in his squeaky swivel chair, folded his hands on his belly, and began twiddling his thumbs as rapidly as he spoke. Whereas this assignment does not relate specifically to the subject matter of your documentary, it requires a clear understanding of the importance of deceit when carrying out clandestine activities of all kinds.

He grinned slyly. Remember that aptitude test you took right before you graduated, the one administered by the CIA?

Uh, yes, Sir, but I didn’t know it was the CIA’s.

That’s because they didn’t want you to know. At any rate, it revealed your aptitude for deceit. He chuckled. You lied at the outset, when you said you had never been arrested before. Our background check also revealed you were a tough little street kid who liked shooting craps in taverns with drunks, using, shall we say, dice that weren’t well-balanced.

I felt a little uncomfortable being scrutinized in this way, much like when the doctor says pull down your pants and bend over. The background check had been pretty thorough. I didn’t know anyone knew about the loaded dice.

So, what’s this special assignment, Sir?

Thought you’d never ask. He rolled up to his desk. Seems there’s some snot-nosed kid running loose on the streets of Saigon who is rumored to be the son of Ho Chi Minh himself. Our sources say this kid’s mother was pregnant with him when she left Hanoi about twelve years ago to go south as a spy, and they say, now get this, Scott, they say the kid’s mother had a red star tattooed on his rump when he was born, so if something should happen to her, he’d never forget where he was from. Peculiar to be sure. In any event, the whereabouts of his mother are now unknown. We think she could be dead. And we’ve gotten word that Uncle Ho has learned of junior’s existence and wants him back in the fold to be groomed as the party’s next leader. Guess they want someone with lineage, as it were, to take over some day. He looked at me again over the top of his glasses. Why the man wore glasses, I couldn’t tell, because he never looked through them, just over them, and down his nose at me, it seemed.

So, Airman Scott, while you’re still being sent to Vietnam as a reporter for Armed Forces Radio, we’d like for you to work with us, on the sly, to try and find this kid before the Commies do.

But for what purpose, Sir?

"To use him as a pawn in negotiations with the North Vietnamese. It might take a while to get our hands on him, so you’ll need to get started on this as soon as you get to Saigon.

But, I-

As I said, we did a background check on you, the colonel interrupted, as was his habit, and it revealed that arrest thing in a . . . , and he consulted a piece of paper, finally using his glasses for something other than a prop on his nose, . . . in, let’s see now, oh, yes, here it is, last year, just before you joined the Air Force.

Yes, I had lied about it. The Air Force doesn’t knowingly accept guys with criminal records.

But that’s okay, he said, rocking back in his chair again, . . . considering what you were arrested for.

For busting some damn hippie in the nose when he tried to burn an American flag during an anti-war demonstration in front of the state capitol in Springfield, my home town. The son-of-a-bitch dropped it, and I stomped out the flames just before the cops came and hauled me off to jail. Best punch I’d ever thrown.

So you know all about that, huh, Sir?

Oh, yes, he said. No sweat, though, Airman. Some things are worth getting arrested for.

He removed is glasses, rubbed his eyes, looked at me and smiled. I know seizing some Saigon street kid may seem like a trivial thing, he said, speaking slowly now, but trivial things seem important to these guys. Case in point: right now they’re squawking about the size and shape of the damn table they’d be sitting at when official talks begin, but then the pace of his speech picked up again, Meanwhile, though, they’ve been making some behind-the-scene overtures through third parties, namely Poland, but they’ve reached an impasse. This kid could be the catalyst needed to move negotiations along. The bombing, at its present level, doesn’t seem to be doing it. So whaddya say, Airman? Interested? He put his glasses on and peered intensely at me over the tops of them again.

Well, Sir, I . . .

Think about it for a while, I wouldn’t want you to rush into anything. Times up, I haven’t got all day, Scott. What’s it gonna be?

The colonel was a fast talker, all right just like a door-to-door salesman. And when I made the mistake of asking if he had any suggestions about what general area the kid in question might be found in—because Saigon was a large city—he responded as if I had already decided to accept the assignment. Maybe I had, but I just didn’t know it yet.

He’s known to frequent GI watering holes on the northern outskirts of Saigon, near Tan Son Nhut, the big air base where you’ll be stationed, he said. Our sources tell us you’re known to frequent watering holes too. That’s another thing that qualifies you for this assignment—your love of the libation. Guess those Springfield taverns rubbed off on you, huh? Maybe you’ll run into him in one of ’em over there.

So what if I do run into him, Sir? Then what?

Befriend the little bastard then snatch him up and get him to a Captain Sylvester at intelligence headquarters at Tan Son Nhut. Here’s his phone number. When you get to the air base call him and introduce yourself. Meanwhile I’ll let him know you’re on your way.

You mean you want me to kidnap this kid, Sir?

That’s exactly what I mean. He grinned. There’s five grand in it for you, Airman. Two now, for expenses . . . , he plopped an envelope down on the desk in front of me, . . . and three more when you deliver, plus two R&Rs to anywhere in the world, and who knows, maybe even a medal. He then pulled a sheet of paper from the middle drawer of his desk.

Here’s an artist’s sketch of what they think he looks like now—like every other goddamn gook kid in Vietnam as far as I can tell, except for the tattoo on his rump. Now why you’d be seeing this kid’s rump, I really don’t know, and I don’t want to know. The only other thing we’ve got to go on is that he hustles GIs at cards and dice, and he talks very badly about their mothers. You know, like the colored guys do in the ghettos: ‘your mamma wears combat boots,’ and that sort of stuff. Being an old crap shooter yourself, Airman Scott, and having grown up on the streets, you two probably speak the same language. So what do you say, Scott, interested? He glanced at the envelope, then back at me. Well?

I too looked at the envelope and weighed in my mind what to do. I picked it up. It felt nice and heavy. More cash than I had ever held in one hand before.

Okay, I’d take the assignment, I decided, not for the money, R&Rs or a medal though . . . ,

Well come on, Scott, make up your mind. The colonel’s voice sounded far away.

. . . but because finding this kid just might, according to what the colonel had been saying, entice the North Vietnamese to negotiate in earnest, thereby ending this war sooner rather than later. The damn thing had dragged on long enough—for more than four years now, without any end in sight. And with increasing regularity, the names of guys I knew had been appearing in the obits, including my cousin Blake’s, a US Marine who was killed at Con Thien.

Hello, Airman Scott?

That light at the end of the tunnel I’d been hearing so damn much about had yet to be seen, so if nabbing this kid for intelligence would help to give us at least a glimpse of it soon, before too many more died, then . . . .

Yes, Sir. I’ll give it a try, Sir. But will my boss over there know that I’ll be working for you guys too.

No. Hell, no, Scott. As I said, you’ll be working for us on the sly. Now, you’ve got the contact’s number, just give him a call. He’ll be expecting to hear from you.

The colonel reached across the desk and shook my hand. Good luck, he said. Oh, just one more thing.

Yes, Sir?

Try to stay halfway sober through all of this, if you can, Scott, because . . . , he spoke slowly, in a low, cold voice that made me shiver, loose lips sink ships, as I’m sure you’ve heard. So, if you should happen to slip up and blab anything about this assignment to the wrong people, well then, he lifted that bushy eyebrow again and smiled, let’s just say your whereabouts may come into question too. We wouldn’t want anything like that to happen, now would we?

Yes, Sir. I mean no, Sir, not at all.

Good, that’ll be all, Airman Scott. Keep in touch. Dismissed.

CHAPTER 2

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Taking off at sundown in a pink Braniff jet, I glanced back at San Francisco, partially shrouded in blue-gray mist. The Golden Gate Bridge, spanning the city’s skyline, appeared as a crown on of a queen watching her knights depart for a distant war. And as I turned away, I caught a glimpse of light glowing softly in a tower on a hill; it looked like a teary eye.

As I settled in for the long flight to Nam, I began to wonder, which of us would not return; the baby-faced kid sitting next to me? The black guy across the aisle, smiling with his eyes closed? Maybe thinking about his wife, mother, kids, or the joke his father told him last night over a farewell beer. That smug Air Force lieutenant? The loudmouthed jerk behind me, yakking about how many slant-eyed gooks he would kill? The Asian-American Marine sitting next to him? Me?

I gazed at my reflection in the window. My mother used to say I resembled Van Johnson, the war movie hero, with my reddish-blond hair, blue eyes and smattering of freckles, but now I thought I looked more like some scared little kid on his way to the dentist. I could see fear in my eyes—fear of the unknown, and of what might await me on the other side of the pond.

At 45,000 feet we were in a race with the sun in a futile attempt to prolong our last day of innocence. It was a race that we ultimately lost when the last glint of light was swallowed by the sea. We drifted all night, farther and farther away from home; and for some—perhaps me—there would be no return.

A few hours later, we hydroplaned down the runway at Tan Son Nhut Air Base on the outskirts of Saigon, through a heavy monsoon downpour. The weather outside the plane looked cool, but when we disembarked, reality sank in. It was actually hot as hell, and within seconds I was soaked from head to toe with sweat and rain. Running would have been an exercise in futility, so I just went with the flow and sloshed my way, one soggy step at a time, to the terminal building.

Inside, ceiling fans turned at a lazy pace as Vietnamese women, dressed in plain white, linen blouses and black silk pants, shuffled about in thong sandals, chatting incessantly as they swept up bits of trash and cigarette butts. Once in a while they’d pocket a keeper.

They looked so mysterious with their little round oriental faces peering out from the shadows of pointed straw hats. Their teeth were stained red with betel nut juice—a mild stimulate similar to chewing tobacco.

Soldiers wearing the uniforms of various countries scurried about trying to catch flights. I recognized the Aussies and New Zealanders because of their Bermuda shorts and bush hats, and they spoke English. The Koreans’ muscular builds and stern, square faces set them apart from other Asians fighting in Vietnam. Cambodians, Laotians, Filipinos, Indonesians and Thais were harder to distinguish. They all looked pretty much the same, to me anyway: similar uniforms, complexions, facial features and stature.

Orders were being shouted in languages I could not understand, except for one, Hey, Airman! a mean looking MP yelled.

Who, me?

Yeah, you. Get your head out of your ass and fall in over here; on the double. Hurry up, let’s go, can’t fight this fucking war without you.

After processing my orders, and a quick lecture on social behavior, Always wear a rubber, they’ve got strange diseases over here . . . we were loaded onto buses and driven to transient quarters to await further assignment.

The rain had stopped and a scorching sun came out. Our bus felt like a sauna, even with all the windows open. As we rode along Tan Son Nhut’s busy flight line, I saw every kind of aircraft imaginable, flying in and out, civilian and military, loaded with refugees, soldiers and bombs, bound for combat or escaping it. A Pan American 707 lifted off with a deafening roar, and I saw somebody’s bare ass pressed against one of the plane’s rear windows. Our driver blew it a kiss, and shouted over his shoulder. I spot one of them every time an airliner takes off for the World!

The World? I asked.

Home. This place is like another planet, Man, compared to the States. They say going home is like going back to another world.

As a huge full moon rose above the base that night, silhouettes of helicopters and palm trees appeared before the bright lunar light. The mosquito net around my bunk softened the glare, giving the scene a dreamy look.

While drifting off to sleep I thought about home, and my buddies at DiLello’s Tap, and my girlfriend Rose Marie, who I last saw standing on the porch in the gloomy gray dawn just a day and half before, waving goodbye. It seemed so long ago, like another lifetime in another world.

CHAPTER 3

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After another two days and nights of lying in limbo in transient quarters, I was rudely awakened at the crack of dawn by the barking voice of a dog-faced sergeant who was standing over me and snarling.

Airman! Wake up! Rise and shine! Up and at ’em! Let’s go!

I leapt to my feet. Yes, Sir!

Sir? Do you see any brass on this here uniform, Scott? Hell no you don’t! These are stripes! One, two, three, uh-,

Four?

Four? Yeah, that’s right, Scott, four. I’m a Staff Sergeant, Scott, so don’t you go callin’ me, Sir, got it, Scott? Ain’t no officers or gentlemen around here!

Yes, Sir—ergeant.

Hurry up and get dressed then grab yourself some chow down at Mess Hall Three. That’s just around the corner—follow the rats—then report to Senior Master Sergeant Joe Pulaski at Seventh Air Force Information Radio News. That’s six blocks south of the mess hall, past the swimming pool and Base Theater Five. Hang a right at the NCO Club. It’s Quonset hut at the dead end of the block. You’ll see the sign on the door.

I showered, faked shaving, got dressed and went to the mess hall for a breakfast of burnt toast and powdered eggs. While washing it down with a cup of what they called coffee, I noticed a Pacific Stars & Stripes newspaper lying on the table. NATIONAL GUARD, BLACKS BATTLE IN DETROIT, 38 DEAD, MUCH OF CITY BURNS! H. Rap Brown Calls for Guerrilla War Against Whites, the headlines read. And I thought the war was over here.

While leaving the mess hall in my starched Air Force khakis and spit-shined shoes, jelly roll to go in hand, two rough-looking Army guys in worn out fatigues bumped into me and snickered when I dropped the roll.

REMF, the taller of the two said disdainfully.

Who, me? I asked, not being familiar with the term REMF.

Yeah, you, rear echelon mother fucker. Think you’re in a war here?

The other one laughed. Look at this fuck’n place, he said while looking around. Table cloths and curtains, then he squashed the roll under his boot and red jelly squirted all over my pants.

Ooo, watch out, Flyboy! Blood!

I thought about cuffing him upside the jaw—and back in the World I probably would have, but I couldn’t see getting into a fist fight with another GI in Nam. Besides, based on the way they looked and acted I guessed they had been in Vietnam fighting for awhile over something more important than jelly rolls, so I gladly backed off and moved on.

Six blocks to Radio News my ass. I’d walked at least twice that by the time I got to the swimming pool and Base Theater Five. NOW PLAYING, the marquee said, FROM HERE TO ETERNITY—CASPER THE FRIENDLY GHOST CARTOON.

When I finally arrived, drenched in sweat, I expected to be chewed out by another gruff sergeant like the one at transient, for being so late. Instead, when I stepped inside the small, air conditioned building, a man with lots of stripes on his sleeves greeted me with a smile and a handshake. Hello, he said, "I’m Sergeant Pulaski,’ and he read my name tag out loud.

Scott. Mick, isn’t it?

Yes, Sir.

Just call me Sarge, or Joe, or prick, if that’s what I deserve, and sometimes I probably do. We’re pretty informal around here. Except you still have to salute the officers—the desk jockeys anyway. The pilots couldn’t care less.

The sergeant had an accent—a big city accent—like from Chicago—maybe New York or Philly. Probably Chicago, based on the northern Midwest twang. He combed his slightly graying, black hair straight back along the slides with a wave on top that hung at the end in a curl. Pretty cool for an older guy.

Have a seat, Mick. You look hot. Want something to drink?"

Well, I guess it’s too early for a beer, I joked.

A little. We usually knock of for one or two around five, though. He took a jug of water out of the refrigerator and poured me a glass.

Radio News looked a lot like a recording studio. Insulated with fiber board, it contained three large audio editing machines, along with a desk, chairs, filing cabinets and supplies on shelves. A map of Vietnam hung on one of the walls, with foldouts from Playboy Magazine tacked up around it. Joe sat behind the desk, on which there was a photograph of a pretty woman and two teenage girls. They girls looked like twins. He lit a cigarette and offered me one.

No thanks.

Smart boy. First of all I’ll fill you in on what your basic job here will be, Mick. You’ll be our main correspondent in the field interviewing grunts in combat about how effective they think air support is, both resupply and bombing. You may have to prod them a bit. We prefer positive feedback of course, to, ‘you bastards killed my buddy with napalm.’ The material you provide us will be used in the production of special features for Armed Forces Radio, Voice of America and occasionally the networks.

Sergeant Pulaski reminded me a lot of my Uncle Frank, who smelled like Vitalis (hair lotion), and he always had a lit cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. A steady stream of smoke went straight up into his left eye. He cocked his head and squinted; it had to burn, but that cigarette stayed put. He smoked the same brand as my Uncle Frank too: Lucky Strikes. I could barely see the package through the pocket of his light blue shirt. My Aunt Betty, the nurse, called it a target on his left lung.

I’ll have you listen to some of the features we’ve produced to give you an idea of what it is we’re looking for, the sergeant said. When I say ‘we,’ I’m talking about the other two guys; Steve and Bruce, who work here, too. They’re on assignment elsewhere. Sergeant Pulaski began to cough, then he put the cigarette out. Damn things," he grumbled as he lit up another one. Yep, just like my Uncle Frank.

That’ll keep you busy enough until Monday when you’ll be going on your first assignment, Mick, to Can Tho, down in the Mekong Delta. But before I give you the details, there’s something I need to talk to you about, at the risk of sounding like a hot-winded old fart.

The cigarette in the corner of his mouth bobbed up and down as he spoke. You see, Mick, I was a Pacific Stars and Stripes correspondent in Korea, so I know what I’m talking about here when I tell you what it’s like out there in the field. Ever watch any of those old war documentaries; The Big Picture, 20th Century, stuff like that?

Yeah, I’ve seen a few of ’em, on TV on Saturday afternoons.

Sergeant Pulaski put the half-smoked cigarette out, but this time he didn’t light another one. My sidekick, Sam, a photographer, filmed a lot of that stuff, he said, gazing out the window. There was a distant look in his pale blue eyes. Combat journalism can be a very tricky thing, Mick. You can lose perspective. Sam called it ‘the detachment syndrome.’ He said in the heat of battle he often felt transparent, like the lens of his camera, and the action seemed to pass right through him.

He then looked squarely at me. Sam lost sight of what he really was, Mick: flesh and blood, muscle and bone. He walked right into a fire fight with that camera stuck to the middle of his face. Sam’s shutter closed forever that day, with one last impression—a bullet between the eyes. Tom—the guy you’re replacing—didn’t have the benefit of this conversation, because, like I said, I didn’t want to come across as a hot-winded old fart. Big mistake.

What happened to Tom? I asked, not sure I really wanted to know.

He was interviewing a grunt who was pinned down by sniper fire. He must have thought that just because he was a reporter, the enemy wouldn’t shoot him, but to Charlie all GIs are fair game, even if they’re reporters, medics, or even chaplains. Rules of engagement don’t mean a fuckin’ thing to the Commies, Mick, as you’ll soon find out. So, do me a favor, when you’re out there, remember one damn thing; you’re made of stuff bullets make mince meat of. He lit up another cigarette and smiled. Okay, Man?

Okay, Joe. Suddenly it felt more comfortable calling him Joe.

Now, about that assignment. We’ve got an Air Force commando posing as a Viet Cong in the tunnels of the Iron Triangle. He’s got the scoop on how two recent search and destroy campaigns have affected enemy operations there.

What’s the Iron Triangle? I asked.

A vast enemy tunnel complex about 20 miles northwest of here. It contains living quarters, hospitals, munitions factories and food stores. I’ve heard they’ve even got nightclubs down there. Basically, it’s the Commies’ southern command headquarters. It’s been called ‘a dagger pointed at the heart of Saigon.’

Joe stood and drew a triangular red line on the map outlining an area northwest of Saigon, and sure enough it came to a point not far from the northern edge of the Capital.

Initially, he said, while putting out the cigarette, which was only half-smoked, and lighting up yet another one, we thought the search and destroy operations failed, but based on information from recently captured enemy documents, US intelligence now thinks the Viet Cong are in disarray as a result. The documents supposedly quote Uncle Ho’s number one field commander, General Giap, saying the sweeps were disastrous for the Viet Cong. We believe that at least 3,500 were killed.

Joe sat down. Any questions so far, Mick? I know this is quite a bit of information to absorb right off the bat.

Yeah. If the Viet Cong are in such disarray, then we’re about to win this thing, right?

Not quite. The ones who survived the sweeps have, according to the captured documents, fled to border sanctuaries in Cambodia and Laos where they’ve joined up with their North Vietnamese Army comrads and are planning to attack frontier outposts. But intelligence is concerned that this information might be bogus and was intended to be captured in order to entice us into moving the bulk of our troops to the boonies, away from the cities, particularly Saigon, thereby leaving them unprotected. Our mole should know. So, Mick, while on the surface your assignment is to obtain material for features, the underlying purpose is to obtain information for US intelligence. In essence, you’re working for them on this one.

Little did Joe know that I would be working on something else for them too, but I couldn’t divulge what it was, not even to him, although he seemed trustworthy enough to confide in. Maybe someday I would.

We need to get the information ASAP, Joe said, but the mole can’t come to Saigon until December or January, so we’ll have to go to him.

In the Iron Triangle?

No. I’ve arranged for you to meet the guy Monday evening in Can Tho. He goes there periodically for R & R under the guise of recruiting trips for the Viet Cong. You’ll find him in a cellar saloon called Sinbad’s Galley. It’s on the waterfront. Take a taxi. Be there around eight. Order rum, straight up, with a twist of lime, then look around. He’ll give you some kind of sign. His real name is DiCroix—Major Kim DiCroix, but on tape he’s just the major. Here’s a list of questions designed to meet our needs for Armed Forces Radio, as well as for intelligence purposes.

Joe gave me the list and I looked the questions over quickly.

Now, I’d like for you to start listening to some of the features Bruce and Steve did for Armed Forces Radio to give you an idea as to what it is we’re looking for here. He handed me a stack of tapes and a headset and directed me to one of the editing machines.

This should keep you busy for the rest of the day, he said. We’re basically an eight to five shop here, Mick, Monday through Saturday, so you’re off tomorrow. What you do after five and on Sundays is your business, but be careful. While Saigon may seem safe on the surface, it can be dangerous.

At five Joe tapped me on the shoulder and I shut the machine off and removed the headset.

That’s it until Monday, Mick.

He turned off the lights and we walked out together. "When you get back from Can Tho next week we’ll get your things out of