cincibuck
You kids stay off my lawn!
News Item: by Tom Bowman, NPR, All Things Considered, June 10, 2009: "The Americans were out to capture a Taliban leader and bomb-maker named Mullah Faizullah. The Taliban operative tried to escape on a motorcycle.
Chief went after him but rolled his ATV. When Faizullah reached for his weapon, Chief jumped up and shot him dead.
Here's the twist: After the Green Beret killed the Taliban bomb-maker, the U.S. military command in Kabul put out a news release giving credit to "Afghan soldiers."
The incident highlights the bigger problem: Afghan forces aren't taking the lead.
"Hopefully, one time or another, in a few years, maybe more, they'll be at a point where they can actually take care of this themselves, but we'll see, we'll see," one of the soldiers says.
The Green Berets get in their vehicles and head north across the desert, back to Firebase Thomas.
At the end of the day, these soldiers say it is not enough to put an Afghan face on things.
As one U.S. commander said: It's about the Afghans getting their asses in gear."
JUSPAO
(Joint United States Public Affairs Office)
An Episodic Poem
I was summoned by phone,
"Lieutenant, I'd like to meet with you,"
her tone indicating I was an errant schoolboy.
Leaving the tent, the dust and barbed wire,
the booming of howitzers,
the incessant whup, whup, whup of choppers
Willy, Wayne and I head for Saigon,
Highway 13, Ambush Alley, twists and turns
through villages, by rice paddies and bits of remaining jungle.
Past the fish market, smelled long before seen,
then Tan Sohn Nhut Air Base, out to the compound
for State and Defense Department civilians
Wandering about paved suburban streets,
trimmed chartreuse lawns,
sprinklers hissing,
A village of beige buildings, sidewalks, signs;
black windows reflecting the Vietnamese sun,
Bougainvillaea and camellia in tidy borders.
Parking lot on the side,
"JUSPAO" says the sign
above the Department of Defense Eagle and Shield.
Less than twenty-five miles from our tents,
we've stepped back to the world we left,
a world of policy makers and policy enforcers.
Where wars are fought with ad campaigns.
Where napalm becomes "selected ordinance."
Where truths go to die.
Helmets, flak jackets, their two rifles and my .45,
Salt-encrusted fatigues and dusty boots,
we saunter in, enjoying a bit of John Wayne ego.
The black glass doors, holding our image, open.
A blast of Arctic air rushes over us, sweat chills,
runs down my spine, my forearms grow goose bumps.
The receptionist says, "Miss Hamilton will be right with you, Lieutenant."
An indication that this place isn't used to enlisted men?
"Have a seat over there," she points to a coffee table.
Clip, clop, high heels, on waxed tiles,
mint-green pantsuit, white turtleneck, all polyester,
string of pearls, beehive hairdo, dark red fingernails.
"Alice Hamilton," she says to me, hand dangling.
I hear my dad instruct about firm handshakes
as I wrap my fingers around the offered limp, dead fish.
"And this is Specialist Johanson and Specialist Yeager,"
I say, pointing to my colleagues.
The hand retracts, I'm the one she says she needs to see.
"You and I can walk to my office," she says,
not even making eye contact with the two.
"They can read the magazines."
I decline her office. I am the democratic lieutenant.
We sit in naugahyde chairs, admire the slick magazines
she boasts about putting together.
"Lieutenant, I have to ask you,"
that teacher-to-schoolboy tone back in her voice,
"How did you get your position without going through me?"
Three voices raise their hand, all eager to answer,
The wiseass: "Could you have gotten me out of Vietnam?"
The lawyer: "Colonel Franklin didn't deem it necessary."
I allow the third, the diplomat, to answer,
"I went through Colonel Franklin's office,
Major Chick, my boss, approved."
"Were you trained at our school, at DINFOS?
Your name should have come up on my list."
I see that I'm the pawn in a game of power chess.
"Theatre major in college, worked in radio and TV,"
I choose to protect my own hide first.
"I guess they decided I could do the job."
No student of chains-of-command, at least I know this one.
I want to toy with her, jerk her around.
Instead I choose voice number three to continue talking for us,
Explaining my transfer to her,
from Long Bihn to a job in the field,
"I didn't ask how they got it done."
The sympathy factor:
Lieutenant with cushy job in a huge logistics base,
requests assignment with infantry unit.
"Well, I expect to have appointments run by me,"
she fumes, fidgets with pearls, taps open-toed wedgie on floor,
"Let's talk about the real reason I brought you here."
She has no authority.
I listen anyway.
In this crazy palace she outranks me.
She needs me to spread the lie
that the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, ARVN,
is doing the bulk of the fighting."
I choke back laughter.
The Saigon streets are full of draft-age men,
none of them in uniform.
She sees the look on my face and digs in,
"Just two weeks ago, at Bien Hoa, in your Area of Operations,
They took on an NVA regiment and saved the air base."
She's serious. I can't decide. Be furious or comical?
"With all due respect ma'am," (I don't need a reprimand)
"The 11th Armored Cav had to rescue them."
"No!" she insists, "They stood up and fought and won!
We've got to get that story out.
The American public needs to know that ARVN is fighting."
I see her predicament.
The president has called for "Vietnamization."
She needs a myth to prove his words.
I haggle just up to the point of insolence.
"ARVN stood around, waiting, as he always does down here,
and American boys fought and died for him."
"Where do you get your information?"
she rages. "You were there, you should know
ARVN has taken over the fighting."
I like my job.
If I have to be in Vietnam, this is the best I can hope for.
I promise to pass on the word of ARVN's resurrection.
As we stand up to leave, "One last thing, Lieutenant,"
She zeros in, eye contact, sincerity-dripping tone,
"If you release any photos of American wounded, make sure they're smiling."
We all but run to the jeep, eager to leave Oz,
the slick magazines, mint-green pantsuits,
chartreuse lawns and hissing sprinklers behind.
We rush through the city, sewage, fish and diesel fumes, heading home,
"So, you gonna pass that shit on to Major Chick?" Willy asks.
"No fucking way!" I shout as we drive back to reality.
Chief went after him but rolled his ATV. When Faizullah reached for his weapon, Chief jumped up and shot him dead.
Here's the twist: After the Green Beret killed the Taliban bomb-maker, the U.S. military command in Kabul put out a news release giving credit to "Afghan soldiers."
The incident highlights the bigger problem: Afghan forces aren't taking the lead.
"Hopefully, one time or another, in a few years, maybe more, they'll be at a point where they can actually take care of this themselves, but we'll see, we'll see," one of the soldiers says.
The Green Berets get in their vehicles and head north across the desert, back to Firebase Thomas.
At the end of the day, these soldiers say it is not enough to put an Afghan face on things.
As one U.S. commander said: It's about the Afghans getting their asses in gear."
JUSPAO
(Joint United States Public Affairs Office)
An Episodic Poem
I was summoned by phone,
"Lieutenant, I'd like to meet with you,"
her tone indicating I was an errant schoolboy.
Leaving the tent, the dust and barbed wire,
the booming of howitzers,
the incessant whup, whup, whup of choppers
Willy, Wayne and I head for Saigon,
Highway 13, Ambush Alley, twists and turns
through villages, by rice paddies and bits of remaining jungle.
Past the fish market, smelled long before seen,
then Tan Sohn Nhut Air Base, out to the compound
for State and Defense Department civilians
Wandering about paved suburban streets,
trimmed chartreuse lawns,
sprinklers hissing,
A village of beige buildings, sidewalks, signs;
black windows reflecting the Vietnamese sun,
Bougainvillaea and camellia in tidy borders.
Parking lot on the side,
"JUSPAO" says the sign
above the Department of Defense Eagle and Shield.
Less than twenty-five miles from our tents,
we've stepped back to the world we left,
a world of policy makers and policy enforcers.
Where wars are fought with ad campaigns.
Where napalm becomes "selected ordinance."
Where truths go to die.
Helmets, flak jackets, their two rifles and my .45,
Salt-encrusted fatigues and dusty boots,
we saunter in, enjoying a bit of John Wayne ego.
The black glass doors, holding our image, open.
A blast of Arctic air rushes over us, sweat chills,
runs down my spine, my forearms grow goose bumps.
The receptionist says, "Miss Hamilton will be right with you, Lieutenant."
An indication that this place isn't used to enlisted men?
"Have a seat over there," she points to a coffee table.
Clip, clop, high heels, on waxed tiles,
mint-green pantsuit, white turtleneck, all polyester,
string of pearls, beehive hairdo, dark red fingernails.
"Alice Hamilton," she says to me, hand dangling.
I hear my dad instruct about firm handshakes
as I wrap my fingers around the offered limp, dead fish.
"And this is Specialist Johanson and Specialist Yeager,"
I say, pointing to my colleagues.
The hand retracts, I'm the one she says she needs to see.
"You and I can walk to my office," she says,
not even making eye contact with the two.
"They can read the magazines."
I decline her office. I am the democratic lieutenant.
We sit in naugahyde chairs, admire the slick magazines
she boasts about putting together.
"Lieutenant, I have to ask you,"
that teacher-to-schoolboy tone back in her voice,
"How did you get your position without going through me?"
Three voices raise their hand, all eager to answer,
The wiseass: "Could you have gotten me out of Vietnam?"
The lawyer: "Colonel Franklin didn't deem it necessary."
I allow the third, the diplomat, to answer,
"I went through Colonel Franklin's office,
Major Chick, my boss, approved."
"Were you trained at our school, at DINFOS?
Your name should have come up on my list."
I see that I'm the pawn in a game of power chess.
"Theatre major in college, worked in radio and TV,"
I choose to protect my own hide first.
"I guess they decided I could do the job."
No student of chains-of-command, at least I know this one.
I want to toy with her, jerk her around.
Instead I choose voice number three to continue talking for us,
Explaining my transfer to her,
from Long Bihn to a job in the field,
"I didn't ask how they got it done."
The sympathy factor:
Lieutenant with cushy job in a huge logistics base,
requests assignment with infantry unit.
"Well, I expect to have appointments run by me,"
she fumes, fidgets with pearls, taps open-toed wedgie on floor,
"Let's talk about the real reason I brought you here."
She has no authority.
I listen anyway.
In this crazy palace she outranks me.
She needs me to spread the lie
that the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, ARVN,
is doing the bulk of the fighting."
I choke back laughter.
The Saigon streets are full of draft-age men,
none of them in uniform.
She sees the look on my face and digs in,
"Just two weeks ago, at Bien Hoa, in your Area of Operations,
They took on an NVA regiment and saved the air base."
She's serious. I can't decide. Be furious or comical?
"With all due respect ma'am," (I don't need a reprimand)
"The 11th Armored Cav had to rescue them."
"No!" she insists, "They stood up and fought and won!
We've got to get that story out.
The American public needs to know that ARVN is fighting."
I see her predicament.
The president has called for "Vietnamization."
She needs a myth to prove his words.
I haggle just up to the point of insolence.
"ARVN stood around, waiting, as he always does down here,
and American boys fought and died for him."
"Where do you get your information?"
she rages. "You were there, you should know
ARVN has taken over the fighting."
I like my job.
If I have to be in Vietnam, this is the best I can hope for.
I promise to pass on the word of ARVN's resurrection.
As we stand up to leave, "One last thing, Lieutenant,"
She zeros in, eye contact, sincerity-dripping tone,
"If you release any photos of American wounded, make sure they're smiling."
We all but run to the jeep, eager to leave Oz,
the slick magazines, mint-green pantsuits,
chartreuse lawns and hissing sprinklers behind.
We rush through the city, sewage, fish and diesel fumes, heading home,
"So, you gonna pass that shit on to Major Chick?" Willy asks.
"No fucking way!" I shout as we drive back to reality.
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