Tom Glenn's Blog, page 59

What Battlefield?

In yesterday’s post on aloneness, I mentioned supporting troops on the battlefield. That led one reader to ask what battlefield and what did I do. I’ve written about that subject here before, but I’ll risk repeating myself to answer the question.

The battlefields I can talk about are those in Vietnam. But after the fall of Saigon in 1975, I went on assisting troops elsewhere in the world until I retired in 1991. Where and who is still classified, so I can’t discuss it. What’s not classified is the seven languages I was comfortable in: Vietnamese, Chinese, French, German, Spanish, Italian, and Latin. One is free to speculate on where and with whom I might have used those languages.

What I did during combat on the battlefield was to assist friendly troops with signals intelligence against the enemy. That meant using information derived from the intercept and exploitation of the enemy’s radio communications to advise the friendlies on where the enemy was, what he was doing, what his troop strength and weaponry were, and what his plans were.

To do my job, I had to be on the battlefield in the middle of combat. I spent more time on the battlefields of Vietnam than I did anywhere else in the world simply because I was in Vietnam so long—between 1962 and 1975, when Saigon fell and I escaped under fire, I spent more time in Vietnam than I did in the U.S. The miracle is that I was never wounded in combat, even though men next to me were killed in ways too ghastly to describe. I ended up with a roaring case of Post-Traumatic Stress Injury (PTSI) that I will have to contend with as long as I live.

More next time.

Aloneness

I have just spent more than a year and a half by myself. Because of the pandemic, I isolated myself from human contact to protect my health starting a year ago last March. As an aging man with a history of lung cancer (the upper lobe of my right lung was surgically removed in 2015), I was especially vulnerable to covid-19 which, had I contracted it, would almost certainly have killed me. So I limited my human contact to occasional trips to the grocery store.

That time is ending. I have had several visitors lately in addition to participating in a parade, attending Veterans Day celebrations, and offering my fall of Saigon presentation twice. In the coming week, I’ll welcome a visit from my eldest daughter and her husband and a group of friends who will celebrate my birthday.

My time of isolation was less of a burden to me than it would have been to someone more gregarious. I am a loner by habit and preference. I’m very reluctant to depend on others due to a childhood with a father in prison and a drunken mother when I had no one but myself to rely on myself for food and shelter. I learned early that I could depend on myself but not on others. My self-reliance paid high dividends during my years spent supporting troops on the battlefield when my survival was pretty much up to me.

And I am a writer, a profession that demands working alone. With six books and 17 short stories in print, I’ve had plenty of practice in working by myself.

Maybe as a result of the life I’ve lived, I’m content with spending time alone. It feels normal and relaxing whereas being with others is something of a strain. I guess that’s all to the good because I have two more books to write. I’m a slow writer, and my books takes years to complete.

I guess I know what my future holds.

Yankee Doodle Dandy

The song, “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” which I have heard and sung on and off my entire life, turns out to have originated in the 18th century before the American Revolution. The term “Yankee Doddle Dandy” was an insult invented by the British to apply to the Americans resisting Britain. It suggested that the rebels were both gay and bumbling.

The song was written at Fort Crailo around 1755 by British Army surgeon Richard Shuckburgh while campaigning in Rensselaer, New York. Over time, the Americans adopted the song for themselves, and it became something of a patriotic hit. It is now that state song of Connecticut.

Macaroni was considered a food of great delicacy in eighteenth century America, and it became the name of a fashionable wig. That led to use of the word to refer to a fop who gave undue attention to his attire. My Merriam-Webster Unabridged offers several definitions of macaroni; one is “a precious affected young man.” The song suggests the foolishness of a youngster who thought that putting a feather in his cap would make him into macaroni, that is, a man of style.

The first line of the song, both words and music, is quoted in George M. Cohan’s song, “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.” That song was written for the musical Little Johnny Jones, that opened at the Liberty Theater in New York on November 7, 1904.

So here I am, at an advanced age, singing a song that, unbeknownst to me, originated before the U.S. gained its independence from the U.K. Will wonders never cease?

Autumn Foliage

As I write, the autumn show of brilliantly colored leaves is just past its peak. Along the street where I live, the display has been more vivid than any I remember from years past. The dozens of trees close to my house seem to be trying to outdo one another in intense yellows, oranges, and reds.

From a window in my living room, I can see a tree in the yard next door that is the most vibrant red I ever remember seeing in the fall. It spreads its limbs as if to boast about its beauty and seems to be saying, “Hey, everybody, look at me.”

I have written here several times about my dislike of autumn and winter and the cold that replaces the summer’s warmth. I dread the oncoming freezing temperatures and snow, and I yearn for the warm days when I can go around in shorts and no shirt. But I am comforted by the trees’ shamelessly flamboyant spectacle. I remind myself that the leaves’ change of color, eventual death, and falling to the ground is not caused by the onset of cold weather but by shorter and shorter days as winter looms.

And I comfort myself by remembering that the trees are not dead, just dormant. They will wake up and grow fresh new leaves in a few months as the spring comes. My job is to go on being productive despite the dark and the cold of winter.

For me, that is a daunting task.

Veterans Day Celebrations

I always get very busy around Memorial Day and Veterans Day because of my veteran status and my long involvement in working with the military. But this year’s Veterans Day celebrations were exceptional. I had a television appearance (as mentioned here earlier, you can watch it at https://www.wmar2news.com/voiceforveterans/army-veteran-former-nsa-spy-writes-to-cope-with-trauma-from-vietnam-war), a parade, two offerings of my presentation on the fall of Saigon, an American Legion celebratory gathering, and a “poppy event,” where I passed out red artificial poppies and accepted contributions to help beleaguered veterans. It’s all over now, but it’s been quite a week and a half.

For me. the poppies represent the essence of our celebration of veterans. They recall the poem, “In Flanders Fields” by John McRae. It was written about World War I, but it captures my feelings about all the men I fought beside who died in battle, especially in Vietnam. I’ve quoted it before in this blog, but it’s well worth another read. Here it is:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 
To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high. 
    If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
        In Flanders fields.

The Seasons

As I age, I become more attuned to the seasons of the year and the changes in light and warmth that come with them. I can’t help but dread the cold, dark time of year, winter, that lies just ahead. It is my least favorite season.

I haven’t always suffered so much from the cold. That began when I returned the last time from Vietnam after the fall of Saigon in 1975. I had lived in Vietnam more or less continuously for the previous thirteen years and had become complete acclimatized. The year-round tropical heat of South Vietnam became second nature to me. Like most Americans, I wore as little clothing as possible and stayed tan year-round.

It wasn’t until after I returned to the states in May, 1975, that I realized how acclimatized I was. The spring weather in the U.S. and even the summer heat were uncomfortably cool. When autumn and then winter arrived, I realized what bitter cold really was. I bundled up in long johns, turtleneck sweaters, jackets, earmuffs, and stocking caps. I annoyed my family by forever raising the thermostat, even when we had a roaring fire going in the fireplace.

I’ve grown more moderate over the years, but my sensitivity to cold stays with me. And as winter approaches, my cognizance of the darker emotions that accompany its shorter days and longer, colder nights is sharpened. It seems to me that the darkness and sadness of winter is so universally understood that we human beings had to invent Christmas and New Years as times of joy to counteract the mournful effect of the dark season.

Spring is the time of promise. The weather gradually warms. And we look forward to the relaxed happiness of summer.

I have to keep reminding myself that the warm time will come again. All it requires is patience. Unfortunately, I don’t have any.

Veterans Day Parade

I was honored again this year to participate in the Veterans Day parade in Columbia, Maryland, where I live. It took place on Sunday, November 7. I used advanced age as an excuse to ride this year. Last year, I had a hard time keeping up with the younger veterans, and I was forced to admit that walking is no longer easy for me. I walk with a slight limp as a result of a botched knee replacement surgery in 2015. Getting around is not my bag. 

That said, I take as much pride in my veteran status as I ever did, and being part of the parade is both an honor and a privilege. I am unusual among veterans in that my time in combat came after I had finished my military service and was operating in Vietnam as civilian under cover as military. I was comfortable in the three languages of Vietnam (Vietnamese, Chinese, and French) and supported troops on the battlefield (both army and Marine) with information about the enemy derived the intercept and exploitation of his radio communications. I was so good at my job that I ended up spending more time in Vietnam than in the U.S. between 1962 and 1975 when I escaped under fire as Saigon fell. One of the ironies of my life is that the Veterans of Foreign Wars won’t admit me to its ranks because during my time in combat abroad, I was a civilian.

But nothing in my life matches the brotherhood I feel with other veterans. We are brothers in arms, willing to put our lives on the line for each other. The strongest bond I have ever felt is with the men who fought by my side. We men don’t like to use the word “love” for the emotions we feel toward other men, but my love for my fellow combatants is the strongest love I have ever felt.

So every year, I look forward to the Veterans Day parade. I am a proud marcher, even if I have to ride. And my love for my brothers in arms is as strong as it ever was. May we march together for many more years.

Fall of Saigon Presentation (2)

I am surprised that after all these years I still get deeply emotional over the story of the fall of Saigon. The account of my escape under fire still moves me to the depths of my soul. It was the end of my Vietnam period, the thirteen years during which I spent more time in Vietnam than I did in the U.S. I loved the country and its people. To this day, I grieve over those we lost during the final disaster, especially the 2700 South Vietnamese that worked with me and my organization. We didn’t evacuate them. The North Vietnamese killed many of them on the spot; those who survived were sent to “re-education camps,” really concentration camps, where the death rate was exceedingly high.

So the title I give to the presentation is apt. I call it “Bitter Memories.”

Fall of Saigon Presentation

Yesterday afternoon, I offered my presentation with slides on the fall of Saigon at the 50+ Center in Ellicott City. Thirty-odd people attended and gave me their undivided attention as I told of my escape under fire on the night of April 29, 1975, after the North Vietnamese were already in the streets of the city. I don’t know how many times I’ve given the presentation. I stopped counting a year or two ago when I reached seventy.

As always, at two points in the presentation, I choked up and had tears in my eyes. The first time was when I told of a South Vietnamese officer who told me that he couldn’t live under the communists. “When the communists come,” he said, “I will shoot my three children, I’ll shoot my wife, and I’ll shoot myself.” That officer didn’t escape at the end, and I have no doubt he carried out his plan because so many other South Vietnamese officers did exactly what he described.

The other highly emotional point in the story comes when I talk about the two men who volunteered to stay with me to the end, the communicator Bob Hartley and the communication equipment technician Gary Hickman. As I say during the presentation, I’ll always love those two guys for their raw courage. In staying with me as Saigon fell to the North Vietnamese, they risked their lives because I asked them to.

At the end of the presentation, I describe how Al Gray, the Marine officer I wrote about in yesterday’s blog post, arranged for me to escape. In the dark and the pouring rain on the night of April 29, 1975, I boarded a helicopter for the flight to the ships of the U.S. 7th Fleet cruising out of sight of land in the South China Sea. No sooner were we airborne than we came under fire. We took so much lead that I thought we were going down, but we made it.

More next time.

Marine Corps Birthday (2)

There’s a story about General Gray that I can’t verify, but it rings true. Asked why he never married, General Gray answered that if the Marine Corps had wanted him to have a wife, it would have issued him one. He did marry, late in his career, when it was appropriate for him as a senior officer to have a mate to help him entertain.

From General Gray and other Marines, I learned that a successful supervisor leads rather than manages. A leader uplifts and encourages subordinates to be the best that they can be, whereas a manager seeks to control them. The people working under my leadership achieved amazing results. I am still proud of them today.

More than one Marine I’ve known maintains that November 11 was chosen to celebrate Armistice Day (later changed to Veterans Day) to give Marines a holiday in which to recover from the celebratory drinking on November 10, the Marine Corps Birthday. A number of Marines I’m acquainted with have done precisely that.

So I have many reasons for fondness of the Marine Corps. As a result of my respect, I always capitalize “Marine.” And I celebrate their birthday. May they endure for another 246 years!