Tom Glenn's Blog, page 122

Spoonerisms

The term “spoonerism” comes from the Reverend William Archibald Spooner, born in London on July 22, 1844. He was an Anglican priest, scholar and writer. He studied at New College, Oxford, before lecturing there for 60 years, in history, philosophy and divinity. He died on August 29, 1930.

Spooner became famous for an error in speech in which corresponding consonants, vowels, or morphemes are switched between two words in a phrase. One of the best-known attributed to him occurred at a wedding he officiated over. At the end of the ceremony, he is reputed to have said, “It is kisstomary to cuss the bride.”

As a writer and wordsmith, I have always found words and how we use them a subject of great fascination. Nothing has made me laugh more than spoonerisms. Among my favorites:

Birthington’s washday (Washington’s Birthday), Sale of two titties (Tale of two cities), Is the bean dizzy? (Is the Dean busy?), This is the pun fart (This is the fun part).

But the one that has made me laugh for years is a church conversation:

“Mardon me, padam, do you occupew this pie?”

“Indood I dee.”

“Well, may I sew you to a sheet or give you a perch in the back of the chew?”

Trump’s Attack on Intelligence

In Saturday’s Washington Post, retired admiral William M. McRaven warned us about the danger to our country as a result of President Trump’s firing of the acting Director of National Intelligence (DNI) Joseph Maguire after one of his subordinates reported that the Russians are trying to undermine our 2020 election. I have no doubt that the evidence gleaned from all intelligence sources confirms Russian malfeasance, just as it showed Russian interference in the 2016 election to increase the likelihood of Trump’s victory. Trump’s action raises a number of concerns.

As one who spent his entire career as an intelligence professional, I have to ask why Trump always and invariably supports Russia, a known adversary of the U.S. guilty of multiple actions against us. Why is he so pro-Russia? The worst possibility is that he has some kind of deal with Russia carefully hidden from Americans. Or maybe the Russians have some form of control over Trump. Perhaps they are blackmailing him or threatening him in some way we know not of. Or maybe Trump’s love of Russia springs from his overall admiration of dictatorships. He is certainly doing all he can to increase his own power and weaken both the legislative and judicial restraint on the presidency.

Much more important are the implications of firing Maguire for telling the truth. Our intelligence agencies are our eyes and ears. They tell us what the rest of the world is doing. They warn us of threats from other nations. Deliberate efforts on the part of Trump to weaken or silence them is an invitation to disaster.

And when a president is able to obscure the truth and lie to Americans about intelligence findings, American democracy is in severe danger. We are well on our way to autocracy. That Senate Republicans make no move to stop this trend makes them complicit.

Admiral McRaven said it better than I can. Here is the last paragraph of his op-ed:

“Americans, we should be frightened — deeply afraid for the future of the nation. When good men and women can’t speak the truth, when facts are inconvenient, when integrity and character no longer matter, when presidential ego and self-preservation are more important than national security — then there is nothing left to stop the triumph of evil.”

It is time for all of us to demand that the Congress and the courts put a stop to our rush to dictatorship.

Vietnamese Communist Air Attacks, April 1975 (2)

The following is a quote from my article on the fall of Saigon (“Bitter Memories: The Fall of Saigon” Atticus Review, February 9, 2016). It describes events during the North Vietnamese attack on Saigon at the end of the Vietnam war.

“Not long before sunset on 28 April, I made a head run. The mammoth Pentagon East [that is, the Defense Attaché Office building on the northern edge of Saigon, which had housed the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam (MACV) until 1973] was in shambles. Light bulbs were burned out, trash and broken furniture littered the halls, and the latrines were filthy and smelled disgusting. I came across men on stepladders running cables through the ceiling. They told me they were wiring the building for complete destruction. ‘Last man out lights the fuse and runs like hell,’ they joked.

“I went into the men’s room. I was standing at the urinal when the wall in front of me lunged toward me as if to swat me down, then slapped back into place. The sound of repeated explosions deafened me and nearly knocked me off my feet. Instead of sensibly taking cover, I left the men’s room and went to the closest exit at the end of a hall, unbolted it, and stepped into the shallow area between the western wall of the building and the security fence, a space of maybe ten to fifteen feet, now piled high with sandbags.

“The first thing I noticed was that the throngs of refugees had dispersed—no one was clamoring outside the barrier—presumably frightened away by the explosions. My ears picked up the whine of turbojets. I shaded my eyes from the setting sun and spotted five A-37 Dragonfly fighters circling above the Tan Son Nhat runways. They dove, dropped bombs, and pulled up. The resulting concussions sent me tumbling, but I was on my feet and running before the planes went into their next approach. Back in the office, I found out shortly that renegade pilots who had defected to the Communists were bombing Tan Son Nhat.”

End of quote. Saigon fell to the North Vietnamese the next day, 29 April 1975. I escaped under fire the night of 29 April after the North Vietnamese were already in the streets of the city.

Nguyễn Thành Trung was again part of the air attack force. He was ever thereafter considered a hero by the North Vietnamese. He went on to become a pilot for Vietnam Airlines.

I’d certainly been through air attacks before during my thirteen years on and off in Vietnam, but I’d never before been on the side of those targeted. I hope I never am again.

Vietnamese Communist Air Attacks, April 1975

Twice in April 1975, as Saigon was falling to the North Vietnamese, their pilots attacked the city from the air.

The first time, on 8 April 1975, a South Vietnamese pilot, who was secretly a North Vietnamese agent, flew his F4E Phantom fighter jet out of the formation that had just taken off and headed into Saigon. He bombed the Dinh Độc Lập (Presidential Palace), not far from our villa.

My wife was at that time preparing herself and my four children to leave South Vietnam. It was already clear to me that the North Vietnamese would assault Saigon soon as the last step in their conquest of South Vietnam, and I was rushing to evacuate all my subordinates and their families as well as my own wife and children. Our villa was close to the Presidential Palace in downtown Saigon. My wife and the children were terrified. I got them on a plane out of the country the next day.

As I learned much later. the pilot who did the bombing was Nguyễn Thành Trung. He was a North Vietnamese plant in the South Vietnamese Air Force. He had trained in the U.S. All through his time in service he was waiting for an opportunity to avenge the death of his father at the hands of South Vietnamese troops. After bombing the palace, he escaped to a safe zone held by North Vietnamese troops in Phước Long Province.

The second bombing was on 28 April 1975 as the fall of Saigon reached its conclusion. When it happened, I was holed up in my office at Tan Son Nhat adjacent to the airport runways, on the northern edge of Saigon. In my article on the fall of Saigon, I described the attack. I’ll quote from that article in my next post.

More next time.

Porcelain Elephants from Vietnam

My house is cluttered with mementos from Asia, especially from Vietnam. Prominent among them are four porcelain elephants.

The two largest are matched, about two feet high. They bear howdahs (elephant saddles) on their backs, and head coverings and body drapes make them ornate. Their trappings are in a wide variety of colors, green and orange predominating. Their faces look happy.

The third elephant is slightly smaller. It is all blue and white, with howdah and body drapes. It is more graceful than its two larger brothers, and its lighter coloring makes it look less ponderous.

The fourth elephant is only about nine inches high and sits on a table rather than on the floor. It is the most delicately colored of the four—mostly blue—and is the only one to appear gentle and even lyrical.

During my thirteen years in and out of Vietnam, ceramic elephants were very popular trophies among westerners. My wife, on my two accompanied tours, acquired a good many objets d’art, including the elephants, a Chinese porcelain temple dog, and garden seats. She went out of her way to point them out to guests at our house back in the states.

I never saw a live elephant during my years in Vietnam. I was told that there had once been a large population, but hunters, primarily westerners and Montagnards, had reduced the numbers to the vanishing point. I have no idea if any survive today.

My home today is littered with memorabilia from my years abroad. Most prominent, because of their size and rarity, the elephants attract most attention from visitors. And they’re my favorites.

The Things I Carried (2)

My two guys were evacuated from Saigon by helicopter at 1400 hours (2:00 p.m.) on 29 April 1975. I went out that night on a Huey, a small Air America helicopter. My chopper was fired upon and almost shot down, but we made it to a ship of the U.S. 7th Fleet cruising in the South China Sea. In the pockets of my slacks were what I always carried—my car keys, change, my wallet, the usual pocket litter. But I also had my passport and identity papers which labelled me as a diplomat and employee of the U.S. State Department, my cover at the time.

I was also carrying things in my hands. One was my .38 revolver, the only weapon I’d had to defend myself against the eighteen North Vietnamese divisions that were attacking Saigon. And under each arm I carried a flag. One was the stars and stripes; the other was the orange and gold flag of the now defunct Republic of Vietnam, that is, South Vietnam. They were the two flags that had stood on either side of my desk in my office.

When the helicopter I was on landed on the Oklahoma City, the flag ship of the 7th Fleet, sailors immediately took my .38 from me, but I wouldn’t give them the flags. I kept them with me as we sailed to the Philippines. I carried them on the flight from Subic Bay to Honolulu. I had them under my arms as I flew from Hawaii to Baltimore. I landed in Baltimore wearing the same clothes I’d escaped Saigon in and carrying the same belongings, minus the .38. When I returned to NSA, I took the flags with me and presented them to the agency I had represented in Vietnam.

Today, these two flags are in the Cryptologic Museum at Fort Meade, Maryland, adjacent to NSA headquarters.

They—and I—are home at last.

The Things I Carried

When Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried came out in 1990, I read the book fascinated. I’d been with the troops on the battlefield in Vietnam. I knew what they had with them. I remembered what I carried.

But back then, I still couldn’t speak of my time in Vietnam. For one thing, the fact that I was an NSA (National Security Agency) civilian operant under cover as military in Vietnam was still classified. Besides, I was suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Injury (PTSI) and couldn’t bring myself to speak about what I had been through. Beyond that, Vietnam back then was still considered a shameful war. I never mentioned my years in Vietnam.

Now I’m in a different time. My years-long presence in Vietnam on and off between 1962 and 1975 was declassified in 2016. I’ve come to terms with my PTSI by forcing myself to speak of my combat experiences. And Americans now are curious about Vietnam. It’s no longer a shameful war. Now it’s a mysterious one, and people want to know more about it.

So now I can talk about the things I carried, especially at the very end, in April 1975 when I escaped under fire as the North Vietnamese attacked Saigon.

I escaped in the clothes I was wearing, the standard office apparel for Americans in Saigon—white, short-sleeved dress shirt with no tie; slacks; and black loafers. I’d been wearing that same outfit for more than a week, holed up in my office at Tan Son Nhat, on the northern edge of Saigon, as the North Vietnamese attacked. The clothes were dirty and smelly. So was I.

That last week when I was hiding out in my office with the two communicators who had agreed to stay with me to the end was a time of severe deprivation. We had almost nothing to eat and couldn’t sleep because of the artillery shelling. I kept going by dint of sheer will power: I was determined to do everything I had to do, including giving up my life, to save the lives of the two guys with me.

More tomorrow.

Nefertiti

Featured on the chest in my piano room is a bust of the Egyptian queen, Nefertiti. The piece is a representation of the head and neck, about nine inches tall on a black base three inches in height. It is entirely black and is missing the headpiece featured in the famous bust of Nefertiti in the Neues Museum in Berlin. Instead, the queen appears in this representation as completely bald. The beauty in the bust rests entirely in the face and the shape of the head.

And it is unquestionably beautiful. I so often pause in my daily routine to admire the exquisite proportions of the head and face, the layout of the features, the peacefulness in its perfect balance.

Nefertiti lived from about 1370 to 1330 BC. She was the wife of Akhenaten, an Egyptian Pharaoh who launched a religious revolution, replacing the traditional polytheism of ancient Egypt with monotheism and the worship Aten, the sun disc. Nefertiti eventually abandoned the religion of Aten and was banished by Akhenaten. She committed suicide in grief over the loss of her daughter.

Her name means “the beautiful one is come.” That is certainly fitting. Her bust is arguably the most beautiful of the multitude of artistic pieces I have throughout my house. In her quiet beauty, she dominates the piano room.

Her presence in my house reflects my fascination with the history of ancient Egypt during my youth. The Egyptian empire lasted three thousand years before it became a province of Rome in 30 BC coincident with the suicide of Cleopatra. I marveled that any civilization could exist with relative cohesion longer than the anno domini (AD) period which began 2,020 years ago.

But the beauty of Nefertiti, who lived more than three thousand years ago, is eternal. As long as there are human beings to appreciate beauty, shed will be admired.

My Soul Has a Hat

A couple of years ago, my friend Grady Smith sent me the text of a poem called, “My Soul Has a Hat.” I posted it at the time. Grady has sent me the text again. Again I was deeply moved. So here it is one more time:

Beautifully written by Mario de Andrade (San Paolo 1893-1945) Poet, novelist, essayist and musicologist. One of the founders of Brazilian modernism.

__________________________

MY SOUL HAS A HAT

I counted my years and realized that I have less time to live by, than I have lived so far.

I feel like a child who won a pack of candies: at first he ate them with pleasure but when he realized that there was little left, he began to taste them intensely.

I have no time for endless meetings where the statutes, rules, procedures and internal regulations are discussed, knowing that nothing will be done.

I no longer have the patience to stand absurd people who, despite their chronological age, have not grown up.

My time is too short: I want the essence, my spirit is in a hurry. I do not have much candy in the package anymore.

I want to live next to humans, very realistic people who know how to laugh at their mistakes and who are not inflated by their own triumphs and who take responsibility for their actions. In this way, human dignity is defended and we live in truth and honesty.

It is the essentials that make life useful.

I want to surround myself with people who know how to touch the hearts of those whom hard strokes of life have learned to grow with sweet touches of the soul.

Yes, I’m in a hurry. I’m in a hurry to live with the intensity that only maturity can give.

I do not intend to waste any of the remaining desserts. I am sure they will be exquisite, much more than those eaten so far.

My goal is to reach the end satisfied and at peace with my loved ones and my conscience.

We have two lives and the second begins when you realize you only have one.

End of quote.

Why I Have PTSI (3)

PTSI never goes away. The memories never fade. In the early years, I was subject to panic attacks, flashbacks, irrational rages, nightmares, and depression. But over time, I have trained my emotions so that these days I can face the memories more calmly. I still have nightmares and sometimes crying jags, but for the most part, I’m rational.

Just as my corpsman friend wrote about his PTSI to help him cope and, especially, to help others affected by it, I’m now preparing to speak publicly about my own case and how I manage. I need to do presentations on my PTSI for my own good—it’s another way I can force myself to face my affliction—but primarily because it can help others. Those suffering from PTSI rarely speak of it publicly. They believe they are the only ones cursed with unspeakable memories and are ashamed. When they discover that they are part of a brotherhood of afflicted men, they are better able to handle themselves and their malady.

When I talk to others with PTSI, I’ll emphasize the importance of taking pride in their service to their country. Their struggle comes from wounds that created scars of honor. They put their lives on the line for the good of their country. They have every right to be proud of their service.

So do I.