1600 Hours Local, 18 December 1966
Continental Palace Hotel
Saigon, Republic of Vietnam
Shawn Bannister sat at a wrought iron table on the covered terrace of the Continental Palace Hotel overlooking the traffic bustling back and forth across Freedom Square and around the fountain. A haze of exhaust smoke reached almost to the level of the heavy concrete railing surrounding the terrace. Shawn, wearing aviator's sunglasses, was dressed in his trademark khaki safari suit with wide cargo pockets. His shirt lay open to the navel, exposing the many gold chains he wore around his neck. One of the chains supported a little gold alligator. He had sent an identical one to his father. He hummed happily to himself as he reflected on his life in the Vietnam combat zone. To help him reflect, he smoked a joint of Thai Buddha weed. Killer stuff, he thought. He finished the joint using his roach clip-- the gold alligator.
He recounted his assets. He had several girls--oriental and Caucasian, American and foreign--on the string for romp and randy just about any time of the day he cared to indulge. (The oriental girls during the day, the Caucasians at night.) He had an unlimited supply of dope from his good friend Bubba Bates. (For an airline employee, Bates seemed to have an excess of money that he spent on lavish parties.) He had journalist cronies who doted on his every word.
Best of all, his article "Pandemonium Prevents Rescue," the theme that American forces were a blundering batch of idiots who indiscriminately murdered Vietnamese civilians, had been picked up by the wire services and trumpeted in the liberal journals and magazines. The article clearly established his position as a politically correct thinker. In it, he recounted his experience with a maniac USAF fighter pilot—his own brother, no less-- who, in concert with a madman armor officer, conspired to blow away civilian buses and their passengers one fine day along Route 13. The California Sun touted the story as the real truth about murderous American interference in Vietnam's civil war as told by their fearless reporter direct from the combat zone. Despite being shown photos to the contrary by Court, Shawn had long ago decided to write the article as a `composition' of what probably happened every day.
It took a courageous man, they said, to indict his own brother. Lack of proof from pictures or other journalists was not discussed. Shawn Bannister was now a correspondent célèbre for the Left from Berkeley to Paris. One result was, in addition to representing the Sun, he was selling photographs with limited text to the Paris Match, a French magazine that wasn't about to let up on the American cretins who thought they could accomplish in Indochina what La Belle France could not. Not that he needed the money. The hundreds of thousands settled in trusts and municipals provided by his parents yielded a tidy monthly income.
With one exception, war photographer Shawn Bannister wasn't bothered by the fact that he took all his pictures in Saigon, of drunken G.I.s and whorish bar girls. Nor was war correspondent Shawn Bannister bothered by the fact that all the stories he wrote now were gathered from the seamier side of Saigon life sprinkled with rumors from G.I. bars.
The exception to his Saigon photograph rule was the one he took of a suspected VC hanging by his ankles while the ugliest cook of the Mike Force Nungs waved a knife under his nose. The suspect had been found with three cartridges in his pocket near a civilian hospital that had just come under sniper fire. The Nungs, under command of an American, were doing their best to scare the truth out of the upside down man when Shawn asked if he could take a picture of the scene...for his private collection, he had promised. Well, hell, the sergeant thought, Court Bannister is an okay stud, so his brother must be too. Sure, go ahead.
As soon as the picture was processed, Shawn sold it to a wire service from where it was picked up in all its glossy 8x10 glory by most major newspapers in the U.S. for their front pages. That ensured the American, SFC Vashro, who narrowly escaped a court-martial over the affair, would never make it to master sergeant.
That Shawn was even on the one-hour operation within five klicks of Saigon was because the trusting Sergeant Vashro had met the famous actor's son in the Butterfly Bar on Tu Do a few nights before the incident and had casually agreed to take him out on a close-in patrol. After that incident, Shawn had decided that it would be in his best interests to avoid the Butterfly for a while.
Shawn looked out over the street and saw a staff car he figured was carrying his godfather. He put the second roach he was about to light back in his pouch, stood up and waved a casual hello to his godfather, Albert Whisenand. Whitey wore a short-sleeved white shirt, dark slacks, and a broad grin as he walked up and shook hands.
"Shawn, it is good to see you." He stepped back to look at his godson. "You look tanned and healthy. Tell me, are you eating well? You don't forget to take your malaria pills, do you? What about your shots, are they up to date?"
"Whoa, Uncle Albert. I'm fine. Really I am." They sat across from each other, careful to position themselves to see the street.
"Your Dad would be very angry if I didn't ask those questions," Whitey said with a smile. He leaned forward as the smell of burning hemp assailed his nostrils. He raised his eyebrows at Shawn, who raised his own eyebrows at Whitey.
"Dad knows," he said, "so no lectures. Okay?"
"No, no lectures." Whitey sighed. "Actually, I'm pleased you look so good. You must be doing something right." He regarded Shawn's perfect teeth, firm jaw, and bold eyes. My God, he said to himself, this was Sam twenty-five years ago in all his swashbuckling glory.
They passed a few minutes catching up and talking about how Sam was doing in Las Vegas. Whitey said he'd seen him in Washington shortly before he left for Vietnam. Shawn got a big laugh out of the fact that his dad wore the gold alligator gift he had sent him around his neck on a gold chain. Whitey didn't tell him that his Dad also hung on the same chain Court’s gift, a large curved tiger's tooth mounted in cheap brass.
In the States, when Whitey had questioned Silk Screen Sam about the trinkets, he had replied, "I'm quite proud of them, actually, they're from Vietnam. Courtland sent this tooth from Vietnam. It's one of the upper incisor fangs from a man-eating Siamese tiger. At least that's what they assured Court when he bought it. They said it's the best good luck charm in all Southeast Asia. Proof, Courtland says, against snake bite, SAM missiles, all caliber guns, the common cold, and VD. He has one just like it. And this," he showed Whitey the golden alligator, "is from Shawn." He squeezed the tail and the jaws opened. "It's a roach clip."
At the Continental, though they talked about the weather and mini-skirts and many other things, Whitey and Shawn avoided the issue of the war.
"Shawn, your father tasked me specifically to ask you about your plans. How long will you remain in Vietnam? If you leave, where will you go? Back to France?"
Shawn leaned back and made a snorting sound. "I'm never going to leave here. I, ah, have a lot going besides the magazine. I'm not about to peel out." He looked at his watch.
"Listen, Uncle Albert, it's nearly time for the Five O'Clock Follies at JUSPAO. You know, that's the Joint U.S. Public Affairs Office where the embassy and the military gives us journalists daily briefings on how they want us to think the war is going. Barry Zorthian runs it. I usually go to it. Mostly they're howlers. It's just up Le Loi about a five-minute walk from here."
Whitey told his airman driver to have a couple of Cokes on him over at the PX snack bar and to pick him up at JUSPAO in an hour. The driver smiled and politely refused Whitey's offer of a script dollar. Once the general was out of sight, he planned on a beer or two at Mimi's bar on Nguyen Hue just down from JUSPAO.
Shawn and Whitey walked up Le Loi threading their way around the black market goods spread out nearly to the gutter on sidewalks that had been tiled in the best French fashion but were now chipped and stained. The vendors, mainly women dressed in thin black trousers and white blouses, squatted on mats next to their wares patiently waiting for the sales they knew would come.
Twice the two Americans were approached by little boys who asked them if they wanted to make boom-boom with their virgin sisters for 200 P. From the street came smoozy castor oil exhaust fumes and raucous taxi and cyclo horns, sad adjuncts to a city that once rightfully held the title of the Pearl of the Orient. Saigon had become the classic example of the abandoned courtesan reduced to abuse in the hands of the lower caste.
Suddenly in front of them a black Mercedes 240D came screeching around the corner. Behind it were two Army sedans that quickly bracketed the Mercedes and forced it to a halt by driving into each front fender. The Mercedes driver tried to wiggle out the window of the jammed driver's door but was caught by three beefy Caucasians in civilian dress who jumped from the sedans. Whitey recognized them as having been on the plane from Andrews. One had been in the uniform of an Army sergeant major.
"Hey, I know that guy," Shawn said, pointing to the struggling man from the Mercedes. "It's Bubba, I mean Mr. Bates from Alpha Airlines." He fingered the roach in his pocket. Damn, he thought to himself, there goes my supplier.
A jeep with MP markings pulled up behind the three cars. From the back stepped a tall and sparse Army brigadier general.
"I know him too," Shawn cried. "He's the Provost Marshall for MACV."
The general walked up to the men holding Bates.
"Good job, men," he said, "we've finally caught this dod rotted smuggler. Take him to Long Binh."
The excitement over, Whitey and Shawn walked on. Whitey lost in his reflections of this visible proof of the underlying problems in the war zone; Shawn wondering where his next civilized connection would come from. He disliked buying his stuff from street urchins. It was of terrible quality.
Jive at Five in the JUSPAO building was one of the more depressing scenes Whitey had witnessed. Most of the journalists, talking and laughing as if at a boxing match, had harassed unmercifully the military spokesmen who were obviously not cut out for their job of trying to bullshit the masses. "How do you estimate, for Christ's sake, a body count?" one journalist had yelled to the briefer. "Estimating a body is like estimating the fingers on your hand. You got 'em or you don't." Whitey shook his head in contempt for this lack of respect. Though he was angry at the perpetrators and their peers who didn't silence them, he was more angry at the military for not setting and enforcing higher accreditation standards as well as giving their briefers meatless baloney to hand out.
Whitey had once read a report that by March of 1966, there were 360 newsmen with credentials in Vietnam. Of this number, 141 were Americans, the remainder were Vietnamese, British, Japanese, Koreans, Filipinos, and New Zealanders. Only about thirty percent of these men and women, he learned, were hard core news gathers who would hump the boonies and share foxholes to be with the troops to see what was happening.
So many of the hard core journalists and photographers had been killed or wounded that the news profession was taking losses proportionally far greater than the G.I.s. Many of the hardcore types went on more patrols than the average G.I. The rest, like Shawn Bannister (and Whitey knew Shawn was like this), expended little energy beyond watching firefights from the tops of hotels and writing up rumors they picked up in G.I. bars.
Whitey had studied their faces. They ranged in age from very early twenties to late fifties. Some of the younger ones had already established reputations for being anti-military before they ever came to Vietnam. While others, who were neither for nor against the war but simply reported the events as they happened, were jolted into cynicism when their editors wired back that they wanted more blood and bang-bang.
"Well, what did you think of Jive at Five?" Shawn asked as they walked out.
"It's a public relations war, and we are losing it," Whitey replied in a disgusted tone.
Whitey’s driver met them at the door and drove them to the Caravelle Hotel. He exuded just the faintest odor of beer. Whitey told him he had an hour to get a Coke before they would leave for Tan Son Nhut. Then, he took his godson to a place he hadn't seen in years, the Champs Élysées restaurant on the Caravelle's rooftop terrace on the 9th floor. From up there they had a panoramic view of Saigon and the environs.
"Uncle Albert, do you mind if I light up?" Shawn said, after they seated themselves. Shawn took a joint from his pouch.
Whitey eyed his godchild. "Yes, I do. Very much."
"Well, you've just ordered a Scotch, so what's the diff."
"The difference is, Shawn, I'm going to drink something that tastes good. You want to smoke something that doesn't taste good, and you want it for only one reason--to get high." His argument was weak, and he knew it. Even more, he wished he had a double Scotch. "Besides," he added as the last word, "it's illegal." He ordered Shawn a beer.
From their table at the edge of the terrace, they watched the war outside the city. Streams of slowly rising and falling green and red tracers gracefully arced to and from ground positions. The approaching night softened the sharp outlines of the city beneath them so that Whitey felt as if they were on a tall ship watching a naval battle on a far wave. Soon Spooky arrived to lick the earth with its fiery tongue, and the green tracers stopped. Behind them, from the dance floor on the terrace, there was shrill gaiety and shrieks of laughter. A Filipina singer with the band wailed about the Gleen, Gleen Glass of Home.
"It's not the same, Shawn," Whitey said after many minutes of watching the war, and listening to the revelry from the rooftop.
"About pot and booze, you mean?"
"No, about the war. I was in London in the early forties when the blitz was on. You could watch ack-ack and tracers, and searchlights, and the high flames of fires started somewhere in the city. It was not a graceful thing to see. But the people were; they were graceful. Here," Whitey stared out over the rail, his voice thick, "here, God help us, it's just the opposite."
Shawn had no comment. Whitey fell silent. He took a sip of his Scotch and remembered his appointment earlier that day with the Ambassador.
"General Whisenand," the Ambassador had said, "it is my pleasure to welcome you to the embassy. Let me know if we can be of any assistance." He paused for a second, and smiled at Whitey. "I have been informed by State that the purpose of your visit to Vietnam was to ascertain methods to improve our air campaign up North. I trust you have been successful?"
"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. I am pleased to be here. Yes, the purpose of my visit was to see about our air campaigns. As far as success is concerned, that will depend on how the president reacts to my proposals."
The Ambassador leaned forward. "Which are?"
"Which are classified for the moment." He held up his hand in response to the reddening of the ambassador's face. "In truth, Sir, I have a jumble of ideas that are not fully thought out much less in a presentable form. What I can say is this: Our Air Force and Navy air crew members are going up against air defenses in many areas worse than anything mounted in World War Two. In spite of heavy losses, they go out day after day in a display of courage and professionalism seldom equaled, never bettered."
While the Ambassador nodded in agreement to Whitey's dramatic observations, his eyes appeared puzzled as if he were wondering just what the Air Force general's point was. He didn't wonder long.
"What I haven't deciphered yet, Mr. Ambassador," Whitey said quietly, "is to what purpose these men are being sent into that inferno."
Whitey wondered if the Ambassador would cable that remark back to the State Department and, if so, whether or not State would pass it on to the president. He surprised himself by realizing he didn't care. He shifted in his chair on the balcony.
By the end of the hour, the two men, godfather and godson, were lost in their own thoughts. Shawn had tossed off several beers. He wanted to get away and light up, but was afraid of what Uncle Albert would tell his father if he forced a departure. Whitey stared morosely over the rail at the night battles while he sipped the worst Scotch he had ever tasted. Finally, they took the elevator to the lobby.
The driver met them and ushered Whitey to the car. Shawn, suddenly feeling his beer and his independence, stopped his godfather at the car by grabbing his arm.
"Uncle Albert," he said, "tell me, when are you military bastards going to get the hell out of Vietnam and leave it in peace?"
Whitey narrowed his eyes. He disengaged his arm. "Goodnight, Shawn, and goodbye," he said in a voice like a file on steel. He climbed into the car without shaking hands. The airman closed the door for him. As he backed away, he spun around and grabbed Shawn by his lapels.
"Listen you little weasel, you'd better stay the hell out of my sight because the next time I see you I'm going to beat the living crud out of you. You newsie bastards are the ones who better get the hell out of Vietnam and leave us in peace." With that he got into the car and started the engine. He smelled as much of beer as Shawn had.
"Sorry, General," he said. "Guess I pure got carried away. That wasn't anybody important, was it?"
Whitey still didn't have an answer to that question when the driver dropped him off at his trailer.
Washington was cold and rainy when the SAM flight brought Whitey home. He stared down through the dark mist at the red and white bands of taillights and headlights as the evening traffic streamed along the Wahington D.C. Beltway. He knew he would have to have a long talk with Sal about resigning from the Air Force.