Elective Amnesia?

There is an issue in my life that is known by only one other person; that being my wife Karen DeEtte. For some time now I have been aware that I have lost 4 yrs of my memory, ages 15-19. I have snippets of things that happened, but to put them into some kind of chronology, I cannot. The strangest part of this story is that neither my brother (7 years younger) nor my sister (5 years older) have memory of me, during that time. We were together for the first time in 35 yrs two months ago and both asked me where I was, what was I doing, where did I sleep, how did I eat? How can this be? If it were just me I would think of Alzheimer's or age related issues, but for them to ask me as well, that is strange.


My wife said to me, "Honey, do you honestly not know?" I honestly do not know or remember, and I am blown away that they too have lost "my memory". Could it be that with the loss of my mother at 15 that I just tranced out in trauma? But, they would have to have done the same right? Did I erase the most difficult parts of survival? Again they would have to have done the same. Was the pain at such depth that I chose to not believe it's happenings? I know that I lived because I am here. I am trying very hard to understand this, to wrap my head around it!


I don't know how to think about this. Where to connect. I could say I was on "auto-pilot", but what about them? Was I somehow a ghost (I use this lightly)? Did I fade from this existence? Was the world totally gray to me and being gray, I faded into the periphery? Perhaps I did not think of anyone but my pain, so they never thought about me? If I am not thought about, am I there? These are real questions. I don't understand. I know that I was mortified about my existence, my poverty, my lack of hope and the prospect of destitution throughout my life; and a total lack of a single person that loved me, or that ever loved me enough to remember me. How is it possible that my whole family lost me as well?

Was I hypnotized so deeply, by trauma, that I became not only invisible to me, but to others as well? Did we all create 3 different worlds to survive physically and emotionally? Did we form 3 different realities? And how did we all loose me?

I have to guess that somehow I retreated. I stepped back from the day to day realities of living and kind of walked through the world on auto-pilot. To my knowledge I formed no relationships that had depth, although there are people that tell me things that I don't remember. Apparently I had a deep relationship with a girl my age whom I remember as a friend that I never even kissed yet she insists that I asked her to marry me. She talks of intimacy that I do not remember.

Could it be that Viet Nam at 19, and the trauma of that experience became paramount and over shadowed earlier (what could be considered) mundane experiences? I do know that I did not tell the truth about ViewNam for years. I felt like America had been inundated with the war and just didn't want to hear about it, and who could believe it? Hell, I didn't even believe it.

A year or so ago I contacted a friend I had not talked to since early high school. He wasn't home so I left a message with his wife that it was me who called and left a call back number. When he called back he asked me if it was really me. He was under the impression that I had died in Viet Nam 35 years ago. (Where did he hear that? Did he go to my service?)

I am quite confident that I am psychiatrically sound, (only the sane think they are crazy). Yet this remains a mystery in my life. I would gladly except feedback or anyone who has had a like experience.

Chronicals of Loong: Saigon

I love Saigon. I used to pay a lambretta driver (small taxi) for a couple of hours of just riding through the old French Colonial City. Away from river and the central area of the city, one would think of Old Havana or Paris. The city teems with people, and all of them have a Honda. The streets are clogged with them, and boys sitting on the sidewalk with a barrel of gasoline, selling it by the coke bottle to feed these swarms of little bees. You always had to keep your eyes open and carry a weapon, but for the most part it was quite safe. I have walked hand in hand with a dear friend down the French boulevardes in the middle of the night, with the smell of flowers permenting the air. I have never seen a more beautiful city. I keep a villa there, in Din Tin Huong, about a half mile from the river. Back in the day, a three bedroom French villa rented for about $75.00 a month.

Randy and I hid there, we kept a good stash of weapons just in case, and heavily armed body guards that sat in the garden throughout the night. It wasn't that expensive, and in our case, living on the economy away from any military base, it was prudent. After the jungle in Ca Mau, it was a welcome relief. It was in the garden that I made first contact with Jean Picote'.

Jean was a little man with a heavy French accent. I would learn that he was lean and mean, a member of the French Foreign Legion, a paratrooper, special services. Jean was a recruiter under the authority of JUSMAAGMACV (Joint United States Military Assistance, Advisory Group/Military Assistance Command, Viet Nam), a SPOOK. He looked like a pencil necked geek. I would soon learn how wrong I was. Jean would show his worth many times over the years.

We had drinks under a bright umbrella during the heat of the afternoon sun. Randy was there, Command and Control had set up the meeting. Jean was speaking beneath his large handlebar mustache. "There are villages that we cannot approach with as many as a squad of troopers. The village chiefs want to talk to our soldiers, but are afraid of reprisals. We go in during the day, and they are tortured that night. We need a "turkey shoot"."

I knew what that meant, two people, no support, picking off North Vietnamese Cadre. One might call it "security", it's not what I called it. It was a dirty, mucky, rainy, mosquito infested mission. This was Randy's call, I listened attentively, or made believe I did. Actually I was thinking about the breaded fried shrimp that Oanh was preparing for the evening meal. My boredom must have shown, Jean gave me a mean look and asked Randy if I was bored. I just try not to listen to all the bullshit. Point me in the right direction, tell me who to shoot at. But don't throw flowers at me and give me a parade. At the end of our meeting, Jean passed us two medal badges, wild geese encirling an arm with a sword. We were told it would give us free passage and shelter through the villages that were considered "iffy", on the fence. Bullshit, it was a target. It wasn't the first time Randy and I had been used.

For the next three or four days we languished in the villa with cold beer and good food. Randy was above my paygrade and spent his days with the Legion going over maps and trails. He would determine when we were ready.

Ready was the next day. Three military police jeeps sat outside the villa. The 385th MP Group provided security and movement control. M-60's were "rat patrol" mounted with a gunner on each jeep. We were headed for Ton Son Nhut, the major aviation airport in Saigon. It was a quiet ride, no one spoke. My hangover took in the haze a Charlie model helicopter on the pad, squatting like a big bug loaded down with ammunition and weapons. For me, an M-14 with a starlite scope, and 120 rounds of non tracer 7.62. For Randy his M-16 with a 400 rd basic load. Rations, grenades, flares, and all the other junk was in a water proof bag sitting on the cabin floor. The pilot said nothing, he just wound up the bird and lifted the collective, bringing us into a hover. The slap of the big blades made my head roar. I thought I recognised the right seat. It was Jean. He flicked his intercom switch and I listened through the headset. "One village, three cadre of North Vietnamese Regulars, mean sons of bitches. You are to make contact and eliminate with extreme predjudice." I watched Saigon pass into the morning, the jungle now beneath us. I poked Randy, off the intercom so no one could hear, "How many days?", Three or four he answered. "Where?" I got a "fuck I don't know". We were headed south, deep into the Delta, Dong Tam was off to our east position about 5 miles, it was easily recognised by it's red mud PSP runway. Two AH-1G Cobra's lifted into the sky, killer teams. They would escort us into the small LZ that had been blown by the engineers. A bull dozer had removed tree trunks and all other obstacles allowing for our two birds to settle gently. Jean gave us a thumbs up and we exited the bird and walked the path toward a few grass huts squatting in the jungle. Three or four shots were fired in the distance, it indicated strangers on the AO. We were the strangers. Within a minute or so the enemy knew our position. Hell, they probably had or names. We were confronted by village guards (we caalled them Ruff Puffs). Kind of like Vietnams National Guard, a rifle across the handlebar of a honda, dressed in all black. We dropped rucks and were "escorted" to the village chiefs grass hut. I had an m-1911 (the Army standard .45 caliber), cocked and locked, there is no way I was going into a village unarmed.

Our hands in a temple configuation beneath our chins, we greeted the chief in Buddhist fashion. After tea and some terrible tobacco through a small rubber hose attached to a wooden bowl, Randy began.

"We know they come here." The little old man said nothing but his eyes showed fear. "I am offering you safety for your village and families" Randy continued, "We'll set up an LZ, it will look as if it is an offensive in the area, of which you have no control. There will be partols." The little old man nodded and offered us rice wine. "They will scruitinize us." The llittle man said.

At this point, I am feeling a little creepy. The chickens have stopped clucking, the children have gone to thier huts. I poked Randy in the ribs. "It's weird out there man." Randy perked and looked deep into the old mans eyes. "You're fucked old man." The asshole actually set us up. I had a PRC-25 on my back freaked to the bird. "Run it up," I commanded. Randy and I backed from the hut and hurried to the bird in the LZ, it's engine beginning to wine furiously. As we began to lift off, small arms fire came from the treeline prompting the Cobra's to spray some 20mm cannon. Our UH-1C carried two rocket pods with 17 lb HE, an M-60 manned on each side by a door gunner, and a Honeywell 40mm hand cracnked cannon. We could have levelled the whole village with that one bird, but Randy signalled to hold back and head back to base camp. He wanted to talk.

Chronicles of Loong: The Mang Yang Pass

The Mang Yang Pass is situated between Pleiku and Khontum in the Central Highlands of Vietnam. In 1969 there were two military bases there. Camp Holloway, on the hill, just north of the city of Pleiku, was the home of the 52nd Aviation Battalion. A "slice" of aviation support, from cobra gunships to CH-47 Chinooks. At a moments notice swarms of gunships and medevacs could hit the air like an angy wave of bees. Being on the wrong end of a Cobra with a 20mm electric canno, mini-guns and 40mm rockets was not anyones idea of a good time.

Camp Enari was south of the city and hosted the 5th Special Forces Group. Together, they were a formidable force against the communists of the north. Montagnards ( pronounced mountain-yards) had a large population in the jungles nearby. They are the indigenous peoples. The North Vietnamese called them "silent death" (blow guns), and made a wide path around them when trekking south. They took no notice of orders from anyone and were for the most part left to their own lifestyle. An attack on a Montagnard village was paramount to suicide.

Travel between the two cities of Pleiku and Khontum involved a thin dirt road, littered with mines, and snipers hiding on the steep banks on either side of the road. The pass was ours during the day and a free fire zone at night. Anything movig after 10:00PM was to be considered hostile and could be fired upon. The eyes of the enemy were on you 24/7.

Randy and I swooped into an LZ just south of Pleiku in the lush jungle of the pass. The little compound was held by the 5th Special Forces. It was a simple concrete building with a radio, surrounded by tiny villages of Montagnard and enemy trails. A beautiful stream bubbled it's way through the village and exited by eans of a spctacular waterfall down the side of the mountian. For a pack of cigarettes or a .10 cent box of tide, you could drop your ruck, your weapon, flak jacket at the entrance to the compound and know it would be guarded. It would not be touched without the loss of life. The "yards" were fierce warriors, and I am damn happy that they were friendly to the American forces. There were times when I needed refuge, and there was no safer place in the country than inside a Yard compound. Skulls of their enemies were perched atop high bamboo fences that surrounded each community. You could do alot of razy stuff in vietnam and get away with it, but messing with these guys was not one of them. You observed ettiquette or you died. There was no in between stuff.

Being on PTDY (Permanent Temporary Duty) for all geographical areas of South Vietnam, I have slept in everything from a bag on the ground (pulling off leaches) to some great French Villas. But had never felt safer then when I was surrounded by these warriors who dressed only waist down, and carried blow guns. These were centuries old peoples, wonderfully skilled and fiercely loyal.

So, why in the hell are we in the middle of the highlands drinking rice wine and beer from a skull? Apparently there was this guy, "Crazy Charlie" who took one or two shots at the LZ every day. He never hit anything but it drove the LZ commander nuts. He would pop off a few shots every afternoon and then melt into the jungle. He was like a pesky mosquito but I guess he messed with the SF ego. We visualized him as a little old man carrying an old AK-47 with a broken stock. For his few shots each day he probably received about .25 cents, enough to feed his family. The Commander of Command and Control Central for the 5th Special Forces was pissed at him. Apparently Crazy Charlie had shot a hole in his shiny Huey. High ranking officers had highly waxed, low hour birds with An Arc 102 radios. They could call home at 6000 ft, or stay the hell away from the heat of battle. The "6" bird was always the Commander, and he was always 10,000 feet above the action, far from bullets and mortars. "directing" the encounter.

Randy and I had been dispatched to put an end to it. Crazy Charley had to go. He hit the CO's bird. Fuck, he was like a pet. The guys spoke of him affectionately. Of course they would like to cut off his balls and make him ride a water buffalo. We were hedging, hell, he hadn't killed anyone yet, and it sure as hell didn't look like he would in the future. He was just pissing people off.

The Brief was not an afternoon tea, Randy was pissed, and more than a little hung over. Why in hell did we dance with the Yards?

"Why us," Randy asked, "I mean you SF guys should be able to take care of one guy."

Our answer was short and to the point. "We don't want the bad PR, leaflets have been "found" in the jungle (The American way of using psychological warfare). Cong Ma (the Ghost) has been sighted in the area." So, we are going to let "Cong Ma" take him out. "These people are ver supersticious. No patches, no jungle boots. Carry AK's and light gear". So, if Crazy Charlie got it, it was Cong Ma (Duh).

With a topo and compass we decided to set up about one click (1000 yds) west of the LZ near a trail and running water. We wore the standard pocho with monkey hair shawls that kept us invisble without infrared. Tiger tracks, I found fucking TIGER tracks! OK, now you got me scared. Sitting on a trailside with fucking tiger tracks, now how smart is that?

If things went well, Charlie would be somewhere between us and the compound. During the day we scoured the area and other trails, and at night we slept in the bunker back on the LZ. For three days nothing. On the fourth afternoon we heard the shots, three of them. Charlie was on the east side today, about 300 yards from the compound. There was no way we would have him today, but what the heck, I didn't have anyplace to go, and I wanted to see his site. We trekked for what seemed like hours only to find a bare spot in the jungle with human footprint, bare footprint. The feet were tiny and left barely an imprint in the soggy soil. The site told us nothing.

The LZ wasn't very happy with us, getting shot at and all. Randy got pissed and after about 4 beers let his mouth go. "Hey, fuck you people. Charlie has been shooting at you for fucking months; what have you done about it?"

It was no secret that we were disliked. No one wanted to talk to us. After all, to them we were "prima dona." Called in by their commander who didn't think they could do the job without mucking up the small villages scattered through the jungle. After the beer and Randy's mouth incident, we settled in for the night in the little shack. Charlie was shooting in the afternoons, so we got some good sleep and a healthy breakfast before hitting the trail.

We weren't in the jungle for more than 30 minutes when the smell alerted me. The smell of raw fish and nuoc mam (fish oil). I gave the signal and touched my nose. Randy stood perfectly still at a crouch sniffing the air. The morning mist brought it to me from my left flank. I signaled Randy to follow me cautiously. For twenty minutes I crept through the jungle, careful not to break a stick or move a bush. Small sounds came to my ears not 30 yards away. It seemed like hours, taking baby steps, placing every leave carefully. The last thing I wanted was a full firefight.

His small back faced me. He was in the familiar resting crouch of the Vietnamese people. His rifle an old SKS lay to his left. He was busy chewing beetle nut, watching the LZ, and never heard a thing.

In Vietnamese, Randy whispered, "Don't you move a fucking inch, not one fucking inch".

I pressed the flash suppressor of my rifle to the base of his neck, there was a small jerk of shock, then a wooden pose not moving an inch. We sat that way for probably five minutes, listening to the forest for the tell tale sign of company. Not a sound. I moved very slowly around to face him. I have never seen such Beautiful almond eyes. Wide eyes of fear and surprise. A young girl, a fucking GIRL! All the evidence was there, a crude drawing of the small LZ, lines drawn to sniper sights, a schedule. "Crazy Charlie" was a girl. A tiny, dirty little girl, maybe 14 yrs old. Tears filled her eyes and she peed involuntarily on the jungle floor. Randy was gentle, he calmed her, tied her and began a light interrogation.

We sat and talked for about an hour in whispers as we sat there with her. Asking questions. When he found out what village she was from, Randy ordered her to take us there. We knew there were no regulars in the area during the day. So travel would be safe. Her village chief was friendly to US Forces. When we entered the compound of five tiny huts the villagers gathered to meet us. A wrinkled mother cried, her whithered face streaming tears, her hands templed beneath her chin, quietly begging for the life of her daughter, "Crazy Charlie".

As per custom, the Village Chief escorted Randy, me and the girl to his hut. There we smoked and drank rice wine. Words of pleasantry about the land and harvest were spoken, the chiefs wife served us rice cake. She sat acoss from us in the hut in the prayer position.

"Loong, I am honored" . The old man knew me, word had gotten out. Loong is "Little Dragon", the name given me by the Yards.

"Grandfather, this young woman has been shooting at the LZ." Randy interpreted excellently. Randy understood that her .25 cents was vital to her village and it's survival.

"She has been missing Loong, she has harmed no one. It is our duty so that we may survive. If she does not do this Loong, our village will be burned, our animals slaughtered. Everyone killed." I had seen it before. I have walked into a silent village with every living thing slaughtered. Huts burned to the ground, women raped and cut from genitals to breast by bayonette and left to bleed out. Every single animal, every egg, every nut smashed. It was genocide on a small scale. A terroristic technique that kept the little villages in line.

"Grandfather, with words from your heart, you must guarantee she will NEVER hit another helicopter or EVER hit a person. It must be in your heart Grandfather."

With hands steepled beneath his chin and head bowed low he said, "Loong, it is difficult to live on the edge of a sword. You have my word".

The young girl was sure she would be executed in front of her village. It is what the NVA would have done. Randy whispered to her, "Keep shooting and start missing better." He gave her a small peck on the cheek and a pack of chewing gum. Damn, I never knew he had a heart. Coldest son of a bitch I ever met. We all stood, steepled our hands beneath our chins, and bowed as a show of respect and to seal the agreement.

After riefing the commander, we stayed in the AO for another couple of days, just taking some time.

Crazy Charlie plunked one at me yesterday, missed me by yards.

So crazy Charlie never died; and Crazy Charlie never ever hit anything again. The Command and Control Central Commander was briefed and agreed to the slight adaptation of the order to keep the villages friendly. The guys took to waving and whistling at her whenever she shot. Some danced around the sand bagged bunkers for her.

Saigon was but an hour away in a UH-1, and I was sure that we could find a bird headed south. I needed some time, and three days would do it. Randy confirmed our orders and wrangled the three days out of USARV/J-2. Apparently soneone liked us.

I miss you Crazy Charlie. Your beauty haunts me.

Goodbye Mr. President

Today, I watched with great sadness the funeral of President Gerald R. Ford. I listened to the eulogies, and the comments of the news anchor. I remember those things. His gentleness, his kindness, and genuine dedication to the people of our nation.

It was my first day on Fort Hood, Texas, I was a 25 yr old Vietnam veteran, fresh from an internship on Fort Sam Houston, Texas. August 11, 1974, I was confused and a little frightened at what was happening to my country. President Nixon resigned that day, and Gerald Ford was elevated to the presidency. I guess I was angry that this great nation and it's leaders seemed so disconnected. Yet as the days, weeks and months slowly passed, my comfort returned. President Ford was like a father. He loved us, I could tell. His honesty and integrity was beyond reproach. Nations and their leaders respected him. Seeing this great man on the floor at the Oval office with his dog Liberty brought warmness to my heart. A man who loved his dog, was a man that I could trust. I know how silly that sounds, but as I look back on my life, the greatest people I have known have shown themselves to be kind through their animals. You could trust a man who loved his dog.

He was like us, just a person, living his life and doing the best with what he had. He was not pretentious at all. His wife Betty was steadfast and strong. She faced her demons and President Ford never wavered. I felt the pain of the nation, yet understood that President Nixon did not destroy the presidency, it destroyed him. There was a sadness in my heart for him as well.

I feel like today's funeral is a turning point in my life, another chapter, after many. I feel like I have become a better person because of President Ford, even though I never knew him and he never knew me personally.

The nation is mourning the passing of a wonderful, decent man. How I wish I had known him.

Rocky