Vietnam, from what I could see of it, did not look like a war-torn country (a scenic defect American firepower would eventually correct). The “Communist stronghold” in front of us reminded me of a tropical park. Groves of bamboo and coconut palm rose out of rice paddies like islands from a jade-colored sea. Carrying poles slung across their shoulders, peasant women in conical hats jogged down a paddy dike past a small boy riding a water buffalo. A group of young girls glided by, provocative creatures in their silk trousers and filmy ao-dais. They smiled politely when a machine-gunner named
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