Saigon, as if Tet had only been a passing show, a bad moment before Act Three when the Good Guys would win. True, thereâd been a secret revolt in the American militaryâs high command in â67 because the Joint Chiefs of Staff felt there was no coherent policy in this conflict they were commanding, but cooler heads had prevailed, the Joint Chiefs called off their mass resignation, and their revolt stayed secret, even after Tet. In Saigon on this September day in 1969, the program was to win the war, whatever winning meant.
But as Jud sat on a couch in the living room of House 12, a mustard-colored dwelling surrounded by a high wall just off Rue Louis Pasteur, sharing warm Vietnamese beer with two other Americans, his mind was on immediate personal survival, not foreign-policy abstractions.
Officially, Jud wasnât in Vietnam. Officially, he was a sergeant in the 5th Special Forces, the U.S. Armyâs elite Green Beret counterinsurgency unit beloved by murdered President Kennedy and the CIA and hated by the Regular Army. Officially, Jud was stationed with a Green Beret logistics support team in the Philippines.
In reality, Jud was assigned to MACV-SOGâMilitary Area Command, VietnamâStudies & Observation Group, a low-profile group drawn from all branches of the military and the CIA that was officially studying the lessons of the Vietnam war. In reality, SOG was an ultrasecret spy and clandestine warfare unit charged with everything from in-country reconnaissance to infiltrating mainland China, from prisoner-of-war rescues to assassinations.
Neither Jud nor the two men he was drinking beer with were in uniform. If they had been, they would all have worn green berets and paratrooper wings, yet another level of sophistication separating them from most of the half a million other American soldiers then in Vietnam.
If Jud and the men in the living room of that SOG safehouse had officially existed.
Jud had only met these men that afternoon. They exchanged first names and the sly smiles of a fraternity secret even to its own members, kept everything else on the anonymous bullshit level. The closest Jud came to mentioning the incident that heâd been ordered down to House 12 from Da Nang to explain was when he told his two new asshole buddies that this was one fucking weird war . Heâd started to tell a lie about his romantic conquests during his brief junior-college career when a trim man in a suit strolled into the living room.
âCaptain,â said one of the men, and they all rose.
âAs you were,â said the officer. He had blond hair and blue eyes, a small scar on his cheek. He was maybe thirty to Judâs twenty-one. He carried a manila envelope.
âWeâre ready for you in there, Sergeant,â he told Jud, nodding toward the back-room office.
As they reached the door, the captain said, âDonât worry about this bullshit. Piece of cake, pro forma.â
He smiled. âAnd congratulations. Your R and R request has been approved.â
The captain handed Jud the sealed manila envelope.
Jud hadnât made a Rest and Recreation request.
âCall me Art,â the captain told Jud.
âCome in, gentlemen,â said a voice in the back room.
The captain named Art had been right: Judâs debriefing that afternoon had been a piece of cake. Bullshit. Afterward, Jud opened the manila envelope, found the commercial airline tickets, and orders he burned after reading. He had time to pick up his bag, catch the sunset flight.
To Vientiane, Laos.
When Jud arrived, he went to the White Rose bar, where a naked girl danced on tabletops and garnered tips from the sports-shirt-clad Americans by holding lit cigarettes in her vagina. She was up to four cigarettes at once when the captain from House 12 strolled in, wearing a different tropical suit. He glanced toward Judâs table, went to the bar. Had a quick drink. Left. Jud strolled outside in his
But as Jud sat on a couch in the living room of House 12, a mustard-colored dwelling surrounded by a high wall just off Rue Louis Pasteur, sharing warm Vietnamese beer with two other Americans, his mind was on immediate personal survival, not foreign-policy abstractions.
Officially, Jud wasnât in Vietnam. Officially, he was a sergeant in the 5th Special Forces, the U.S. Armyâs elite Green Beret counterinsurgency unit beloved by murdered President Kennedy and the CIA and hated by the Regular Army. Officially, Jud was stationed with a Green Beret logistics support team in the Philippines.
In reality, Jud was assigned to MACV-SOGâMilitary Area Command, VietnamâStudies & Observation Group, a low-profile group drawn from all branches of the military and the CIA that was officially studying the lessons of the Vietnam war. In reality, SOG was an ultrasecret spy and clandestine warfare unit charged with everything from in-country reconnaissance to infiltrating mainland China, from prisoner-of-war rescues to assassinations.
Neither Jud nor the two men he was drinking beer with were in uniform. If they had been, they would all have worn green berets and paratrooper wings, yet another level of sophistication separating them from most of the half a million other American soldiers then in Vietnam.
If Jud and the men in the living room of that SOG safehouse had officially existed.
Jud had only met these men that afternoon. They exchanged first names and the sly smiles of a fraternity secret even to its own members, kept everything else on the anonymous bullshit level. The closest Jud came to mentioning the incident that heâd been ordered down to House 12 from Da Nang to explain was when he told his two new asshole buddies that this was one fucking weird war . Heâd started to tell a lie about his romantic conquests during his brief junior-college career when a trim man in a suit strolled into the living room.
âCaptain,â said one of the men, and they all rose.
âAs you were,â said the officer. He had blond hair and blue eyes, a small scar on his cheek. He was maybe thirty to Judâs twenty-one. He carried a manila envelope.
âWeâre ready for you in there, Sergeant,â he told Jud, nodding toward the back-room office.
As they reached the door, the captain said, âDonât worry about this bullshit. Piece of cake, pro forma.â
He smiled. âAnd congratulations. Your R and R request has been approved.â
The captain handed Jud the sealed manila envelope.
Jud hadnât made a Rest and Recreation request.
âCall me Art,â the captain told Jud.
âCome in, gentlemen,â said a voice in the back room.
The captain named Art had been right: Judâs debriefing that afternoon had been a piece of cake. Bullshit. Afterward, Jud opened the manila envelope, found the commercial airline tickets, and orders he burned after reading. He had time to pick up his bag, catch the sunset flight.
To Vientiane, Laos.
When Jud arrived, he went to the White Rose bar, where a naked girl danced on tabletops and garnered tips from the sports-shirt-clad Americans by holding lit cigarettes in her vagina. She was up to four cigarettes at once when the captain from House 12 strolled in, wearing a different tropical suit. He glanced toward Judâs table, went to the bar. Had a quick drink. Left. Jud strolled outside in his
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