Read Online Deros Vietnam by Doug Bradley - Free Book Online Page B

son is serving his country and doing his duty. I think we’re losing this damn war because of the media and the spoiled college kids.” Erik’s face turned redder as he added his own private thought. “And I think June Collins is angry because whoever was screwing her, dumped her.”
    â€œBut what does any of this have to do with the war and what Robbie does?”
    Erik sat back down. He and Agnes stared at the blank TV in silence, the setting sun turning the Mesabi Iron Range pink and blue. In the silence, they almost thought they could hear voices saying, “Goodnight, Chet. Goodnight, David.”

The Beast in the Jungle
    Tiger, tiger, burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
    â€”William Blake, “The Tiger”
    â€œCan this war get any crazier?” That was the constant refrain from the reporters crowded into the Army’s daily press briefings in teeming downtown Saigon. The question always elicited a vocal chorus of “Hell, yes!”
    Hunkered down with their colleagues and cigarettes, hands locked and loaded on their gin and tonics, the world’s finest correspondents pondered this and other mysteries at “The Shelf,” South Vietnam’s equivalent of Shanghai’s Velvet Lounge and Paris’s Ritz. Tucked away inside the old French colonial Continental Palace Hotel, The Shelf provided a roosting spot for every spy, diplomat, profiteer, and Hawaiian-shirted off-duty military type because it was the ultimate source and dispersion point for any news and intelligence worthy of the designation. At the end of a hard day in the streets or out in the field, reporters flocked to The Shelf to exchange information, sniff the air for ripe political and military initiatives, or obtain hints of intended plots and coups. The drinks and the bar girls weren’t bad either.
    Not only did sages of the war like Halberstam, Sheehan and Browne frequent the place, Newsweek and Time had their bustling bureaus on the second floor. Visiting VIPs camped out at The Shelf on their way to meet with the generals and ambassadors, double checking what they’d picked up on their official rounds.
    It was also a place where hard-edged professional journalists could let off steam, exhaling with a drink, a laugh, and comradely banter. The nightly ritual began with the obligatory “moment of silence”—and a toast—to fallen or missing colleagues. The fact that there were more names on that list every day correlated directly with the increase in The Shelf’s alcoholic sales.
    â€œOkay, try to top this.” The Chicago Tribune ’s Dave Van Slyke fired the first volley. The gawky, unpretentious Van Slyke, his tie at half mast, looked more like a chemistry teacher than a war correspondent. “One of our generals, who shall remain nameless— Abrams —pulled aside a few of us at MACV today to report that three soldiers from the 54th Signal Battalion had robbed Bank of America’s Nha Trang Branch of three hundred thousand dollars in military payment certificates.”
    There were a few snickers and muted laughs.
    â€œWe weren’t sure if he was going to deputize us or ask to see our wallets!”
    Marvin Jones of the Kansas City Star waited for the laughter to subside. He was one of the few remaining veterans of all three wars—Kennedy’s, Johnson’s and now Nixon’s—which gave him near celebrity stature among his peers. His standing was further reinforced by his status as a decorated WWII hero, right down to his military haircut and spit-shined shoes.
    â€œThat’s easy to top.” Marvin’s voice bounced off the revolving fans in the bar’s high ceiling. “Another of our fearless leaders told me today that Bob Keeshan, otherwise known to most of us as America’s beloved Captain Kangaroo, was actually a Marine sharpshooter and that