Tom Glenn's Blog, page 127

Life Undercover, the Novel

I just read and reviewed Amaryllis Fox’s book, Life Undercover: Coming of Age in the CIA (Alfred A. Knopf, 2019). It is the story of a young woman recruited by the CIA who spent eight years operating undercover as a spy. The review will be published by the Internet Review of Books on 14 January 2020. Once it’s available online, I’ll post the URL here.

What moved me most about Fox’s book was the sacrifice involved in living undercover, as I did for many years before I retired from the government. Cover required both Fox and me to withhold the truth from and even lie to our families about where our assignments took us and what we did. It destroyed her two marriages; it rendered my children fatherless for long periods while I was away on duty.

We also risked our lives. As I wrote in the review, “Those in the military put country ahead of life. What most of us don’t understand is that spies do the same. They are patriots even to the point of giving up their lives.”

Life Undercover caused me to rethink my career in intelligence and re-examine the values that that led me into that way of life. I, like Fox, put my life on the line for the good of the country. Along the way, my family was left to manage on its own for long periods. Was it worth it?

Yes. The country is better off for what I did, and I’m a better man thanks to the experience. But my children? They all grew into strong, admirable adults. I’ll never know if they’d have been better off if I’d been there to nurture them.

Books Reviews

I have been a book reviewer for a good many years. I now do reviews for two different publications, the Washington Independent Review of Books and the Internet Review of Books. As a result, I have read a wide variety of books that I otherwise would never have come across. Those reading has caused me to venture into fields I know nothing of.

One recent example was Sandworm by Andy Greenberg. My review appeared on Christmas day. You can read it at http://www.washingtonindependentreviewofbooks.com/bookreview/sandworm-a-new-era-of-cyberwar-and-the-hunt-for-the-kremlins-most-dangerous-hackers  It was my first encounter with a thing called “cyberwar.”

Far more familiar territory came to me in Life Undercover by Amaryllis Fox. That book deals with spying, a subject with which I am all too familiar. I’ll have more to say about that book in a future blog post. My review will be published on 14 January.

I’m currently engrossed in Marcial Gala’s The Black Cathedral, translated from the Spanish by Anna Kushner. This book, set in Cuba, is a real challenge. The text is dotted with Cuban Spanish words for which we have no equivalents in English. Spanish is one of my languages, but the terms I’m coming across in this book are either new to me or have a somewhat different meaning than in the Spanish of Mexico that I am familiar with. I’ve now begun my second reading of the text, pen in hand to make copious notes.

Two more books await me. One is a study of how the military creates its generals; the other is a novel about Vietnam by a Vietnamese. I’m sure I’ll enjoy both.

I’m fortunate to be able to review books. They bring me a world otherwise unknown to me. I’m richer in mind than I could ever be otherwise.

The GOP No Longer Deserves that Title

As Republicans continue to defend the president in the face of overwhelming evidence of his malfeasance, they have become complicit in his crimes.

Documents and witnesses have proven over and over again that Trump really did try to coerce the president of Ukraine to damage the reputation of Joe Biden, Trump’s most likely opponent in 2020. And the evidence of his obstruction of Congress is blatant: his defiant refusal to honor subpoenas for documents and witnesses. Now Republican senators favor holding a brief hearing to exonerate Trump without calling a single witness.

If Trump is innocent of the charges, hearing from witnesses would prove him to be guiltless. Refusing to call witnesses is tacit admission of his guilt. How can the people of the U.S. tolerate such behavior?

On 17 December, an op-ed appeared in the New York Times written by George T. Conway III, Steve Schmidt, John Weaver, and Rick Wilson, all of whom have worked for and supported Republican campaigns. It’s title: “We Are Republicans, and We Want Trump Defeated.” Then Republican Senator Lisa Murkowski publicly expressed doubts about the validity of the way that Mitch McConnell intended to collude with the White House in the conduct of senate hearings.

Is this the beginning of a Republican revolt against Trump?

My guess is that, with or without the revolt, the Republicans might lose at historical levels in the 2020 elections. If so, then maybe they’ll reform themselves. If not, they may cease to exist as a party in future elections.

The Republican party all my life has been called the “Grand Old Party,” GOP for short. As I am writing this blog post, the Republicans have damned themselves. They no longer deserve to call themselves the GOP.

A Forgotten Keepsake

I was in Vietnam for so long on so many trips between 1962 and 1975 that my memory of where I was when in country fails me. When I moved to my new house last summer, I came across a paperweight that I got in Vietnam. One of the army units I was supporting gave it to me—that much I remember. In its center is the symbol of the Army Corps of Engineers, a medieval castle between two towers. That tells me that the soldier who gave it to me must have been a member of the corps.

The paperweight is round, about two and a half inches in diameter and a little more than an inch high. It is made of mottled marble, black and brown. It’s heavy enough to use as intended, to hold down papers. When I hold it in my hand, memories of fellowship and teamwork seep through my brain. But I can’t nail down the where and the when.

Like so many objects I have from those days so long ago—my jungle boots, some odd coins, a coffee mug—the paperweight makes me feel again the tropical sun from the dry season, the never-ending moisture during the monsoons, the chilly nights in the highlands. It brings back untethered memories of the smell of sweat, gun smoke, and rot. I see young American male faces smiling, crying, in pain.

Most of all, my mementos make me remember the brotherhood that comes from fighting side by side with others. As I’ve said before, the strongest bond I’ve ever known is that I shared with the men who fought at my side. That bond lives on today, even though I’ve lost track of all the men—kids, really, nineteen and twenty years old—I knew on the battlefield. My strongest memories are of those who died in combat. Their deaths scarred me.

So I hold the paperweight in my hand and feel the coolness of the marble. And I remember, for better or for worse, the most vivid time in my life.

Christmas CDs

Born with an instinctive love of music and trained as a musician, I have composed, played, sung, and conducted music all my life. Along the way, I collected a library of recorded music on 78 rpm records, LPs, tapes, and CDs. Most cherished are my CDs of Christmas music, now more than 50 discs.

I start listening to them on 1 December and continue until New Years. They play on my stereo system in my office and on the one in my dining room. They range from medieval music to post-modern. Choruses dominate, but I also have solo albums from all my favorite singers. I alternate listening to classical music such as Händel’s Messiah with Jamaican reggae and southern jazz groups. I have Christmas music from all over the world. It’s so variable that sometimes I wonder at the different ways cultures celebrate.

Among my favorites are Leontyne Price singing a Negro spiritual with no accompaniment and Elizabeth Schwarzkopf singing “Silent Night” as originally composed. I love the ancient recordings I copied from LP to CD, including the Robert Shaw Chorale and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I even have a recording of a Christmas mass I wrote for chorus, folk group, organ, and flute back in the days when I still had time to compose, before writing took over all my time.

Listening to all those CDs takes me back to various times in my life—my childhood when I was a boy soprano in choirs, my time in Vietnam when I formed and led musical groups, the days after the fall of Saigon when I turned to music to help me cope with Post-Traumatic Stress Injury (PTSI) and cherished Christmas as a time of peace and comfort.

Music, especially at this time of year, remains a source of fulfillment for me. I age, lose friends, function less well than I did when I was younger. But music and Christmas remain undiminished.

Christmas

Today is Christmas. This year I’ll have a guest for dinner, a friend who would otherwise spend Christmas alone. The little artificial tree I’ve had for years stands in the center of my dining room table. Christmas music will play all day on my two stereos. I’m wearing my red sweater and red socks. Late in the day, I’ll play Christmas carols on the piano. I don’t play them well enough for anyone else, but I enjoy making them come to life.

I miss the Christmases when my children were little and we together found so much joy and wonder in the day. I remember with tenderness the Christmases in Vietnam with the troops on the battlefield. I recall the last Christmas in Vietnam in 1974 when my family and I opened our home to others who were alone.

I remember all those Christmases of the past, and I am at peace. The magic of Christmas prevails.

Christmases in Vietnam

Between 1962 when I first arrived in Vietnam and 1975 when I escaped under fire as Saigon fell to the North Vietnamese, I celebrated far more Christmases in Vietnam with the troops than I did in the U.S. with my family. I remember especially the brief recognition of the day on the battlefield when guys would wish each other a Merry Christmas between skirmishes. It was a day like any other, except for the unspoken yearning for family, so strong among the troops that I could feel it even though no one mentioned it—and, toward the end of U.S. troop deployments to Vietnam, disgust that led to the oft-repeated “Merry Fucking Christmas.”

I knew those feelings, too. As the war dragged on, I saw that the U.S. had no clue on how to fight the North Vietnamese. And I had children at home who would once again do without a father on Christmas. That deprivation is the factor I most regret about my years in Vietnam. My children have all grown into responsible, functioning, even admirable adults despite being forced spend so much time fatherless. That they have done so well is a tribute to their excellence as people, not to me.

My children were with me for two Christmases in Vietnam, thanks to the two accompanied tours I had there. Their mother and I went out of our way to decorate and celebrate so that they wouldn’t feel that Christmas had lost its meaning in a foreign land. We were marginally successful.

The most memorable Christmas in Vietnam for me was the last one, in 1974. In its foolishness, the U.S. government declared the war over with the signing of the peace accords of 1973. Those of us assigned to Vietnam were allowed to have our families with us. We had a big Christmas tree—never mind that it wasn’t the right kind of pine. The house was dripping with decorations. I read “T’was the Night Before Christmas” to the children on Christmas eve. We had all the men from the office who were there alone in for Christmas dinner. But under the veneer of celebration loomed the knowledge that the North Vietnamese grew ever closer. I already knew that the country would fall within months and was quietly arranging for my family to be evacuated before the North Vietnamese seized Saigon.

And yet, for all that, Christmas remained a magical time. I know that there is nothing inherent in the calendar to make the 25th of December the most special day of the year. I know that the magic comes from the human heart.

May that magic always prevail.

Vietnam (2)

But none of my later travels affected me as much as the thirteen years I spent on and off in Vietnam. Between 1962 and 1975, I was there at least four months every year. I had two complete multiyear tours there and so many shorter trips, usually four to six months each, that I lost count. I kept getting sent back because I was willing to go into combat with the army and Marine units I was  supporting. That made me very popular; no sooner would I get back to the states than a message would come saying, “Send Glenn back.” And back I’d go.

My experience in Vietnam changed me permanently. First of all, my work there proved that I was capable of providing much needed intelligence on the battlefield. That led to a multitude of overseas assignments after 1975.

I came away from my years in Vietnam with a severe case of Post-Traumatic Stress Injury (PTSI) which can never be cured but must be coped with. I learned that I could live with a malady that drove some men to suicide.

And I spoke Vietnamese so consistently that I habitually thought in that language. It helped me immeasurably to understand and use other languages.

But most important, Vietnam made me the man I am today. I was only 25 years old when I first arrived in Vietnam. I was 38 when I escaped under fire at the end of the war. I learned that I could go for days without food or sleep and still function at the top of my form. I learned that a loner like me could operate as part of a team and be more effective. I learned that I was able and willing to risk my life for the good of others. All that changed me from a boy to a man.

My Vietnam years took a toll, especially on my children, who had to learn how to make do without a father. They had to cope with my PTSI. They had to accept that they were not my first priority. My country was. They accepted that and developed an independence I admire in them.

Would I do it all over again, knowing now the effect that Vietnam had on my life? Yes. I did it all for the good of my country. And I am a better man today than I would have been without Vietnam.

Vietnam

Vietnam dominates my writing. Three of my four published books and most of my 17 short stories in print focus on Vietnam.

Friendly Casualties tells stories of those damaged by Vietnam. Among the military, the term, “friendly casualties,” refers to those hurt or killed by our own weapons. All the characters in the book qualify as friendly casualties, hurt in irreparable ways by the war itself.

The Trion Syndrome is about a Vietnam vet suffering from Port-Traumatic Stress Injury (PTSI). It is my own story told as fiction.

Last of the Annamese tells the story of the fall of Saigon which I survived, escaping under fire after the North Vietnamese were already in the streets of the city. I showed the fictional protagonist going through the travails I suffered myself.

Even No-Accounts, the story of a straight man caring for a gay man dying of AIDS, was the result of Vietnam. To help me cope with PTSI, I volunteered to work with the dying. For five years I cared for men dying of AIDS. All seven of my patients died.

Critics point out that my novels and short stories are fiction in name only. They’re right. The stories I tell are about events that really happened.

After 1975, I went on to other work as a signals intelligence operative in other areas of the world, but that work is still classified. Friends make educated guesses about where I might have been deployed from the artwork that decorates my house. A painting of a tiger from China hangs over my living room fireplace. A picture of a church in Kiev decorates my piano room. A copy of the virgin’s head from Michelangelo’s Florentine statue Pietà is on the wall between the glass doors to my deck.

Those same friends muse about the languages I speak: Vietnamese, Chinese, French, Italian, Spanish, and Latin. They draw conclusions I neither confirm nor deny about where my work must have taken me.

More tomorrow.

Yet Another Review Up

My review of Sandworm: A New Era of Cyberwar and the Hunt for the Kremlin’s Most Dangerous Hackers by Andy Greenberg will be published on the Washington Independent Review of Books web site (http://www.washingtonindependentreviewofbooks.com/) on Christmas day. I welcome your comments.