The Saigon Affair
(1972)
Now in the spring of 1972, the streets to the prison camp were all bare and muddy; I rode to Saigon from the prison camp. We passed a truck loaded of captured Vietcong on the road, and I looked at them and the countryside there beyond. The trees were sparse and the grass was tall and it all was of a yellowish-green, to dark green-greens, with tints of brown in-between. There was wet dead grass on the road from the wide rows of tall shrubbery along the edges of the side road, and Vietnamese women were working alongside the opposite side of the road, in a nearby rice field, a few men with oxen, plowing to and fro, making ruts, as our jeep crushed stone and rock and in-between wild wet grass between each axle. It had been raining in the area for a week straight. We came into Saigon past the factories and nightclubs and then residential houses and villas on the many narrow streets. I was Lieutenant Colonel Cooper’s driver, Staff Sergeant John J. Weber.
The Colonel’s face was long and thin, droopy eyes, long arms, small shoulders, walked slowly with his hands half curled up, he took small steps when he walked; I didn’t not know him all that well. I stopped the jeep at the Officers Club on the Air Base in Saigon. I got out of the jeep I handed him his bag full of papers—and he went inside to see the one star General.
I walked down the gravel driveway looking at the club and over towards some barracks, through an alley smoking one after the other cigarettes—just trying to spend time. Then I went back to the club, went inside, found the Colonel with the General, three hours had passed, he was sitting at a table in a back room with maps and all kinds of paperwork about.
“Hello,” he said to me when he saw me. “General,” he added, “This here is Staff Sergeant Weber, my driver.”
The General looked much older than what he was; his face was dried up like a prune.
“Sergeant Weber was a Licensed Psychologist before coming into the Army, why he never became an officer is beyond me,” query the Colonel.
“I’m fine being a Sergeant,” I said. And the General said, “How is everything Sergeant?” adding, “The war is just about over, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “Colonel, do you want me to make arrangements for your quarters this evening, or are we going back?”
“What do you wish me to do General?” he asked.
“You haven’t been up here for awhile, I’d guess Colonel,” said the General, “have you?”
“No,” said the Colonel.
“I believe it,” remarked the General.
“It has been bad at the secure unit (meaning the military incarceration compound or center outside of Saigon).”
“I’ve always felt you were lucky to get that assignment, away from the ongoing fighting, and attacks—the real war.”
“I suppose I was, or am…” whispered the Colonel.
“Next year it will be worse, we’re going to making a major drawback, and the VC (Viet Cong) will attack more readily and heavily I assure you. It is too late to save the country.”
“Yes, I believe so,” stated the Colonel.
“I don’t think they’ll attack in full force since the rains have started, the Vietcong is training an Army to take over the South once we leave,” said the General.
“How is that girl named Xia doing?” asked the General, with a sly bent eye when he asked.
“All right,” commented the Colonel, not liking to have had to answer that question, especially in front of me.
“Yes,” said the General, “you stay in Saigon tonight and go back to-morrow with your Staff Sergeant. I’ll be sending somebody with you that knows you.”
“Who?” asked the Colonel?
“Xia, she wants to see her brother.”
“I’ll be glad to see her, bring her along but that’s not protocol sir?”
The General smiled. “You’re very good to say that. I’m very tired of you taking advantage of our prisoners. If she wasn’t his sister to one of your inmates, I wouldn’t bring the issue up. And don’t worry about the Sergeant, if he’s half the person you say he is, he already knows what’s going on.”
“Is it so bad?” remarked the Light Bird Colonel.
“Gerson, isn’t that his name?” asked the General, but he didn’t wait for the Colonel to answer. “Yes. It is very bad and worse. Go get cleaned up, and I’ll find you tomorrow, and don’t go looking for Xia; (The Colonel was taking liberties with Xia, in payment of allowing Gerson to have an easy life inside the military detention center) I heard about it,” said the General.
“How’s that,” asked the Colonel.
“Yes, Xia wrote me.”
“Where is she now?” asked he Colonel.
“She’s here at the base hospital. She has had a breakdown over it,” said the General.
“I don’t believe it,” said the Colonel.
“It has been very bad for her,” said the General, “and it seems silly to me Colonel to lie on a bed with one who despises you, then lay back and ask her to marry you, after you threaten to punish her brother if she doesn’t. But I suppose it’s better than nothing.”
He stood up as if to walk out of the room, “Sit back down,” said the General, “unless tomorrow you want to be a Major, and you maybe anyhow.”
“Tell me all about everything, and the Staff Sergeant here can analysis it.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” said the Colonel, “other than this affair, I’ve led a quiet life in the Army.”
“You act like a hurt man,” said the General “is there something wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” said the Colonel.
“Well, this war is killing me, slowly,” said the General, “it makes me very depressed at times, and even more so when I hear things like what you’re doing with your power and influence, and rank.”
“General,” commented the Colonel, now worried, “I simply had over stimulated human impulses, no more.”
“Oh,” said the General, then the phone rang, and the General asked me to answer it, and I did.
“What’s the matter?” asked the General (after a moment of silence) I had to take in a deep breath. “Tell me?” asked the General, as I put the phone back down on the receiver.
“Yes sir, General,” I remarked.
“That’s better Staff Sergeant, now what’s up?”
“I feel like hell sir, having to tell you.” I said.
“This war is terrible, so go ahead and tell me.”
“Come on,” said the Colonel.
“We’ll all be getting drunk to night,” I said in passing, then dragged out of my mouth, “Xia committed suicide fifteen minutes ago in the hospital.” (There was a long, a very long silence, the General put his head down, as if in prayer, the Colonel, took in a deep, very deep breath, and let it out slowly, a sigh that had a grinding sound to it. I myself wasn’t surprised, just sad.) Then finally, the General said, “I know Colonel; you’re a fine soldier—you were a fine soldier, a fine Anglo-Saxon boy I presume growing up. I know this also, that you’ll have remorse, I know. Put some cognac in your glass tonight get real drunk, you’ll be a Major tomorrow; now you get out of my sight, and take the Sergeant with you.”
The Colonel shut up. I went over to get the jeep, the Colonel was looking at his silver leafs on his shoulder. “You see how it is sergeant.” He commented.
“Oh, yes, all my life I’ve encountered such subjects, but very few like you. But I suppose we must have them also.”
He looked at the ground, “I loved her,” he remarked; he was all mixed up, I do think. He looked up at me, at the ground again. And I simply said, “You’ll get over that.”
No: 522 (11-23-2009)
Now in the spring of 1972, the streets to the prison camp were all bare and muddy; I rode to Saigon from the prison camp. We passed a truck loaded of captured Vietcong on the road, and I looked at them and the countryside there beyond. The trees were sparse and the grass was tall and it all was of a yellowish-green, to dark green-greens, with tints of brown in-between. There was wet dead grass on the road from the wide rows of tall shrubbery along the edges of the side road, and Vietnamese women were working alongside the opposite side of the road, in a nearby rice field, a few men with oxen, plowing to and fro, making ruts, as our jeep crushed stone and rock and in-between wild wet grass between each axle. It had been raining in the area for a week straight. We came into Saigon past the factories and nightclubs and then residential houses and villas on the many narrow streets. I was Lieutenant Colonel Cooper’s driver, Staff Sergeant John J. Weber.
The Colonel’s face was long and thin, droopy eyes, long arms, small shoulders, walked slowly with his hands half curled up, he took small steps when he walked; I didn’t not know him all that well. I stopped the jeep at the Officers Club on the Air Base in Saigon. I got out of the jeep I handed him his bag full of papers—and he went inside to see the one star General.
I walked down the gravel driveway looking at the club and over towards some barracks, through an alley smoking one after the other cigarettes—just trying to spend time. Then I went back to the club, went inside, found the Colonel with the General, three hours had passed, he was sitting at a table in a back room with maps and all kinds of paperwork about.
“Hello,” he said to me when he saw me. “General,” he added, “This here is Staff Sergeant Weber, my driver.”
The General looked much older than what he was; his face was dried up like a prune.
“Sergeant Weber was a Licensed Psychologist before coming into the Army, why he never became an officer is beyond me,” query the Colonel.
“I’m fine being a Sergeant,” I said. And the General said, “How is everything Sergeant?” adding, “The war is just about over, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “Colonel, do you want me to make arrangements for your quarters this evening, or are we going back?”
“What do you wish me to do General?” he asked.
“You haven’t been up here for awhile, I’d guess Colonel,” said the General, “have you?”
“No,” said the Colonel.
“I believe it,” remarked the General.
“It has been bad at the secure unit (meaning the military incarceration compound or center outside of Saigon).”
“I’ve always felt you were lucky to get that assignment, away from the ongoing fighting, and attacks—the real war.”
“I suppose I was, or am…” whispered the Colonel.
“Next year it will be worse, we’re going to making a major drawback, and the VC (Viet Cong) will attack more readily and heavily I assure you. It is too late to save the country.”
“Yes, I believe so,” stated the Colonel.
“I don’t think they’ll attack in full force since the rains have started, the Vietcong is training an Army to take over the South once we leave,” said the General.
“How is that girl named Xia doing?” asked the General, with a sly bent eye when he asked.
“All right,” commented the Colonel, not liking to have had to answer that question, especially in front of me.
“Yes,” said the General, “you stay in Saigon tonight and go back to-morrow with your Staff Sergeant. I’ll be sending somebody with you that knows you.”
“Who?” asked the Colonel?
“Xia, she wants to see her brother.”
“I’ll be glad to see her, bring her along but that’s not protocol sir?”
The General smiled. “You’re very good to say that. I’m very tired of you taking advantage of our prisoners. If she wasn’t his sister to one of your inmates, I wouldn’t bring the issue up. And don’t worry about the Sergeant, if he’s half the person you say he is, he already knows what’s going on.”
“Is it so bad?” remarked the Light Bird Colonel.
“Gerson, isn’t that his name?” asked the General, but he didn’t wait for the Colonel to answer. “Yes. It is very bad and worse. Go get cleaned up, and I’ll find you tomorrow, and don’t go looking for Xia; (The Colonel was taking liberties with Xia, in payment of allowing Gerson to have an easy life inside the military detention center) I heard about it,” said the General.
“How’s that,” asked the Colonel.
“Yes, Xia wrote me.”
“Where is she now?” asked he Colonel.
“She’s here at the base hospital. She has had a breakdown over it,” said the General.
“I don’t believe it,” said the Colonel.
“It has been very bad for her,” said the General, “and it seems silly to me Colonel to lie on a bed with one who despises you, then lay back and ask her to marry you, after you threaten to punish her brother if she doesn’t. But I suppose it’s better than nothing.”
He stood up as if to walk out of the room, “Sit back down,” said the General, “unless tomorrow you want to be a Major, and you maybe anyhow.”
“Tell me all about everything, and the Staff Sergeant here can analysis it.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” said the Colonel, “other than this affair, I’ve led a quiet life in the Army.”
“You act like a hurt man,” said the General “is there something wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” said the Colonel.
“Well, this war is killing me, slowly,” said the General, “it makes me very depressed at times, and even more so when I hear things like what you’re doing with your power and influence, and rank.”
“General,” commented the Colonel, now worried, “I simply had over stimulated human impulses, no more.”
“Oh,” said the General, then the phone rang, and the General asked me to answer it, and I did.
“What’s the matter?” asked the General (after a moment of silence) I had to take in a deep breath. “Tell me?” asked the General, as I put the phone back down on the receiver.
“Yes sir, General,” I remarked.
“That’s better Staff Sergeant, now what’s up?”
“I feel like hell sir, having to tell you.” I said.
“This war is terrible, so go ahead and tell me.”
“Come on,” said the Colonel.
“We’ll all be getting drunk to night,” I said in passing, then dragged out of my mouth, “Xia committed suicide fifteen minutes ago in the hospital.” (There was a long, a very long silence, the General put his head down, as if in prayer, the Colonel, took in a deep, very deep breath, and let it out slowly, a sigh that had a grinding sound to it. I myself wasn’t surprised, just sad.) Then finally, the General said, “I know Colonel; you’re a fine soldier—you were a fine soldier, a fine Anglo-Saxon boy I presume growing up. I know this also, that you’ll have remorse, I know. Put some cognac in your glass tonight get real drunk, you’ll be a Major tomorrow; now you get out of my sight, and take the Sergeant with you.”
The Colonel shut up. I went over to get the jeep, the Colonel was looking at his silver leafs on his shoulder. “You see how it is sergeant.” He commented.
“Oh, yes, all my life I’ve encountered such subjects, but very few like you. But I suppose we must have them also.”
He looked at the ground, “I loved her,” he remarked; he was all mixed up, I do think. He looked up at me, at the ground again. And I simply said, “You’ll get over that.”
No: 522 (11-23-2009)
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 3:20 PM
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