 |
|
 |
| [-] |
| [−] |
| [−] |
| [−] |
| [−] |
Prev | List | Random | Next |
The fog was thick as pea soup as we made our way across the border, but it muffled the sounds of the boat as we entered Cambodia. That was good, because our business there was anything but good."I wish you'd take that damn blindfold off." I whispered to the skipper.
"I learned to sail this way, hombre." He replied. His parrot sat silently on his shoulder. The bird spoke three languages but was not using any of them now.
"That bird makes me nervous" told him "if he spouts off in any of those three languages I'll..."
"Four languages." He said, still wearing the blindfold, piloting the river on pure instinct, nerves of steel. "English, French, Italian, and 'bird' - you probably forgot bird." He cut the engine, pulled the mask off. "He's disciplined. He wont squawk. And this is as far as we go. I'm not risking my crew. Or my bird"
"Fair enough, far enough." I said, slipping over the side. Kurtz didn't know it but his time was running short.
"Hey..." the skip whispered as I came up for air, "you forgot your hat."
"Keep it." I said, and pushed for shore.
(See here, here, and here for background)
The Mudville Gazette is pleased to announce the First Annual John Kerry Fan Fiction Contest. Entries may be submitted in comments, via e-mail (greyhawk - at - mudvillegazette.com) or as entries on your own blog - I'll link from here. Have at it. Have fun.
Speaking of fun, in reality, back during Christmas '68 I was almost seven, and mom and dad gave me my first shotgun. To this day it's seared in my memory - crawling on my belly through the rice paddies in the Cambodian fever swamp, hunting the elusive Khmer deer...
Update: Jeff Goldstein, poet.
And the guy that came in from the Cold (Fury, that is)...
And still more poetry via Balloon Juice.
Update 2: Martin Larsen contributes this inspirational artwork to the cause.
The horrah... the hamstah...
Paul Noonan, here and now.
Lone wacko? Click here, why should he be lone? And why should he have lonely friends?
Blackfive isn't lonely.
And Michele stayed up waaaay past her bedtime for this one.
Christmas Eve 1968: Silent Running
Wisps of fog were split as the metal of PCF 54 swept forward on the river. My radar mate called out the depth, as we approached the cement pilings blocking us from Cambodian waters.
The pilings approached fast. I closed my eyes to visualize the pilings and the space between them; surely, my craft could easily clear. Surely my navigating can get us past.
Two US Navy Patrol boats were off the starboard bow. Luckily I had the engineman Charley fashion bamboo silencers for the engine earlier. We were silent running for Cambodia. The patrol boats were too busy lighting up the shore to notice us.
The mystery passenger lazily dangled an arm in the water. His green hat concealing his eyes.
With the cement pilings and Navy Patrol boats now at a distance we opened up the motors to get deep in "enemy territory."
Our Boatswains' mate reminded me that we might want to slow as floating debris might damage our hull. We didn't want to limp back into Vietnam.
Needless to say I slowed our progress down. We were approaching the drop off zone...
The spook moved toward me. His eyes and mine locked. That moment has been seared into my mind. Deeply haunting moment. His name escapes me now, but those eyes, they peered into my soul.
We approached the landing zone and I gunned the motors to ensure that we'd hit the beach giving the spook a running start.
As he leapt from the bow, he turned and flung his green hat at me. Those eyes again...I just knew he wouldn't return. His gift to me "my lucky hat."
...
I've carried that hat along with my other lucky charms. I now have it tucked in a secret compartment in my "black briefcase." No one knows about this, as this is the first time I've publicly acknowledged it's existence.
I pull it out when I'm most lonely, and remember back to that night along the Cambodian river shore. That CIA spook was never heard from again. I look in the mirror and I see his eyes, again, and again.
Christmas Eve 1968...Cambodia...CIA agent deep in enemy territory, and I remember the president telling me that there were no US troops there, I was not there. That memory is seared in my mind.
Posted by Neophyte Pundit, Kerry Fiction Fan at August 11, 2004 10:35 PMI did not have sex with that woman in Cambodia.
Posted by JFK at August 11, 2004 10:53 PMIt was Christmas '68, but I don't think everyone should celebrate Chrsimas just because I do. I don't wear my religion on my sleeve, you know? Or my rank. I wear my rank on my collar.
Anyway, it was Christmas 1968 and we were in Cambodia, or near Cambodia, or maybe not. I don't know, I'm not a navigator and ours fell off the boat a while back and we didn't notice until it was too late.
Now where was I? Oh yeah, I was just saying I didn't know where I was. Anyhow, Nixon called on the phone, but it was a wrong number...
Comedy and tragedy
A comedy tonight
He's no weenie
He is a damn alpha male
He stands 6-foot-4
cold roasted. I love dove
I had a talk with a deer today
After he leaves, he'll be thinking about what I said
He strummed the guitar and belted: "Yesterday. . .
I heard he's aloof
My good luck hat
It's been an asset, because Iowans come with low expectations
He smiled and aimed his finger: "Pow."
the seams fraying
Christmas in Combodia
They ate in silence, rarely looking up from their food. The young El-Tee felt shame; his love for the agent, whose name he did not know, who's mission he could not know, was as endless as it was unrequited.
"I like your hat" he said. And regretted it immediately. Man, he thought, did that sound as desperate to him as it sounded to me?
The agent grunted. It' was one of the things he found irresistable about him. "Gimme that ketchup, huh?" He said, motioning to the small plastic bottle.
"Sure" he replied, moving a little too eagerly to comply with the request. "Anything you want, just ask..."
"This'll do" the agent said, taking the ketchup. Their fingertips topuched; to the El-tee it was like a brief spark, like running his tongue across the top of a 9-volt battery. He tried for eye contact but got nothing for his efforts. "You like ketchup, huh? I can't stand that stuff myself."
"Whatever" the agent said, and began eating. "Worst Christmas ever." he said around a mouthfull of snake meat. meat.
"Yea" said the El-tee. "Me too." He looked at his hands. "Crap" he muttered, "got ketchup on my sleeve." The agent remained silent. "That's how I got my first purple heart you know." he added, smiling. The agent gave him a look - the look you give a dead animal suddenly found in your path. "Kidding" he added quickly.
Silence roared between them until he finally got up the nerve. "I got you a gift." He said, and he produced the wrapped box.
"Is this a joke?" Was the response, but he took the box and ripped the paper off. He opened it and lifted the watch.
"It's a real Rolex. I picked it up in Saigon."
The CIA man was creeped out, but he knew he could hock the watch for 10 bucks, probably to the same crook that sold it to the squid. "Uh, thanks, I guess. But I didn't get you nothin'..."
"It's okay..." he said, but his voice cracked.
"Wait" the guy said "here, take the hat."
The LT stared, his jaw agape, at the most beautiful blonde flat top he'd ever laid eyes on...
It was a dark and stormy night, and the spook was still asleep. This evening is still seared in my mind, a white coal of new life. I have never felt this way towards a man before; but war, and all its terror and isolation, finds it own ways to change us.
Cambodia, that siren slut, will finally separate us, leaving me only with a memory, a taste of some kind of different existence. And, if I am lucky, that hat.
The tall, handsome lieutenant moved stealthily through the jungle, the weight of so much on his narrow shoulders. Only he knew Nixon's secret plan for ending the war. Only he, in fact, knew that Nixon had been secretly sworn in a few days after defeating Humphrey and Wallace, and that his team was already in full command of the war.
He parted the simple bamboo curtain and looked at the old man sleeping fitfully on the cot. He seemed so tiny and frail, it was hard to believe that this was Ho Chi Minh, who had so terrified America with the threat of falling dominos.
The lieutenant removed his knife silently from his sheath. Suddenly he heard his name called-- harshly, stridently--
"JOHHHHNNNN!"
John Kerry sat up with a start in the big leather Barcalounger that he'd inherited from his wife's late first husband. "Yes, Teresa?" he said as he hurried to the kitchen.
They stood there, glaring at him expectantly, as if he were a goddamned servant or something instead of the Democratic nominee for president. "The boys want to take the snowmobiles for a spin. Have you checked the oil in them?"
Outside the window he saw one of those Secret Service sonsabitches smirking. "I'll get right on it, honey," he said, hurrying to the door-- anything to get away from them.
"Hop to it, chief," one of the Heinz boys said to another, and as he slammed the door behind him, he heard them all laughing....
Posted by Mike G at August 12, 2004 05:01 PMIt was a dark and stormy night. The moon was fuller than any harvest ever witnessed, turning the surface of the Mekong Delta into a dappling array that seduced you into a relaxed confidence, while betraying your presence to the unseen eyes on either side of the raging torrent.
Cambodia was on one side of the still waters, Red China on the second, and Viet Nam, a place I rarely can bring myself to talk about, was on the other.
"Your mainsail is luffing," I told the pilot. "Is there a problem with our oars?"
"Blimey, gov!" the chimney sweep swore. "There be no wanting for 'ores when we meet up wit' Slick Willy in Laos."
"Louse?" I muttered, remembering how long it had been since my last sponge bath at the Savoy. It was a thought seared... seared! ... into my memory.
Posted by Mick McMick at August 12, 2004 05:05 PMI motored into Cambodia a naive kid, and returned a changed and haunted man -- haunted by the fact I'd never actually been to Cambodia but would be compelled to claim I was, if only to explain why I was changed. And haunted. And seared too, did I mention seared. I returned a changed, haunted and seared man.
Also Penneyed and Weinstocked. Wal-Marted too, but I would never admit that to anyone back home.
Posted by McGehee at August 12, 2004 05:08 PMWe were near the village of Dun Bin Phucd in the valley of Poontang. We were surrounded by Charlie... up to our knees in grenade pins and nothing left to throw but our hats....
but not my hat...not my lucky hat..
nooooooo............
Posted by Chris at August 12, 2004 05:12 PMThe spook approached me in the mist that drifted off the river in Cambodia. I knew we were in cambodia because I had seen it before when one of my cambodian servants prepared tea in that swiss boarding school long ago. But back to the spook: he stood close--closer than john edwards at campaign rally--and he looked deep into my eyes where we connected on a level that g. bush could never know. i notced that he sported good hair under the manly hat. when he took my hand in his, i knew that he would never return. i had never felt more wounded at any time in vietnam / cambodia then at that point. he then did something that is seared in my memory: he took his hat off and put it in my pocket then diappeared over the side of my boat, never to be seen again. i have never known quite how to deal with this memory. sometimes at night, while laying next to my wife, i can still see his eyes.
Posted by Johnie at August 12, 2004 05:14 PMKABOOM! The explosion shook the swift boat, without damaging it in any way. Something hot and wet stinging my eyes. Rice! Damn, my M-79 must have cooked it in the waters of the Mekong. I seemed to be all right -- wait! An underdone grain had broken my skin, slightly.
"You'd better get that treated," said the CIA guy (I'm sure he has a name, but I call him the CIA guy). "I know of a doctor who specializes in the treatment of underdone rice grain wounds -- BUT he's inside the Cambodian border."
"Well, we can't go there. It's illegal. Once Nixon takes office, he might order me in there on a secret mission with the SEALS. I'll get it treated then. But for now, lets head back to base and have some figgy pudding."
"Maybe you're right. Here, use my hat to stanch the bleeding."
"Oh, it's not bleeding at all. It barely broke the skin."
"That's an order, soldier!" barked CIA guy.
"Yes, sir. I'll return your hat when we get back to base."
"No, you keep it. Merry Christmas, John F. Kerry."
"Merry Christmas, CIA guy."
Posted by Mike at August 12, 2004 05:14 PMWhen he say the young spook, he could not keep his hands off of him. Arm around his shoulders, touching his face, back and knees, and especially proud when that young agent said "This is my man."
When the young seamen on the boat noticed their behavior, the second in command just said "I think we're just seeing some genuine affection between them."
That week before Christmas was seared on the tall Lt.'s memory. Seared. When the young agent sliped off early in the morning from the boat forgetting, or maybe not, the hat that covered his blond tresses, young Kerry knew he would treasure it always. "We will always have Cambodia."
Posted by boobs mcgiggles at August 12, 2004 05:16 PMi once knew a spook from the mekong
who left without as much as a "so long"
but he gave me this hat
so let's sit down and chat
about my secret invasion of hong kong
I remember it well. The gooks were drunk and taking turns shelling eachother's border posts. I had a rash in my crotch from that last visit to Saigon that itched like the dickens. The night air was full of bugs, skeeters as big as your hand. Some CIA guy was sitting on the bow, mumbling to himself in Russian.
And it was snowing. Freakin' eighty degrees at midnight and the snow was just falling. The bosun slipped and fell overboard. I never liked him so we waited a while to pick him up. Biggest damn leach I ever saw fastened to his johnson, if you know what I mean. Shot it off with a flare gun, the leach, I mean.
Everything was turning white, and the gooks started singing Christmas carols in French. I tried to join in, but they called a 155 mm fire mission in on the boat so we had to skeedaddle upriver a ways.
It was then I noticed that the helmsman had a third nipple. Why hadn't I ever seen that before? Odd.
Posted by Chuck Simmins at August 12, 2004 05:23 PMMine takes place a little later...
http://www.quibbles-n-bits.com/archives/week_2004_02_22.html#002228
Posted by J at August 12, 2004 05:25 PM
I didn't belong here, a 6 foot 4 inch catheter thrust into this Heart of Dampness.
Cambodia.
Shit.
But Uncle Lyndon in Washington wanted emergency surgery. Charlie was his patient.
"Skip, we got movement ahead," Mickey cried from the bow.
It wasn't Mickey's usual Boston Irish blarney. This was for real. I eased the safety off on the M-16.
"Deck the Bows with Balls of Charlie!" I yelped as I emptied one magazine, then another.
But it wasn't Charlie. More like Charlene. We barely noticed the USO sash when she emerged, quivering banana leaves for a bikini, from behind the mangrove stand.
I shot my man rays into Miss Penelope Del Ray, Playboy Playmate of the Year, 1967.
Mickey, panting, lunged forward, checked by my manly palm on his chest.
"She's mine, Mick," I said, storing the M-16. "Droit de Seignor."
My little bit of boarding school Francais did the trick. Mick simpered back to the stern.
It was a Merry Christmas after all. She really knew how to take the "L" out of LBJ.
A middle aged man sits. His face is entirely expressionless. The beacon light sweeps the room creating a mood of unreality.
He slowly fills his glass and drinks the bourbon swiftly down enjoying the burning sensation it creates. His mind drifts back to that long ago Christmas eve in 1968. He remembers every detail, The Vietcong wore gray, the spook wore a hat.
Of all the swift boats in all the rivers in all the world, he had to walk into mine.
Posted by Kelly at August 12, 2004 05:32 PMJohn "Rambo" Kerry
Posted by Dave at August 12, 2004 05:35 PMChristmas in Cambodia in ‘68
This was a special ops deal and my “eyes only” orders had to be eaten immediately –ketchup made it go down a little better though. Soo secret was my mission that my double, more than 50 miles away in Vietnam, was taking my place and the newly automated controls allowed me to run the ship without any crew except the black ops guy they called “Tex.”–no swabbie was going to rat me out by saying I was in Cambodia. The sounds, the sounds of the native drums from both sides of the river pounded in my head as Tex lounged on the swiftboat’s deck, a Lucky dangling from his mouth with his signature hat, a beanie with a propeller on it, crumpled on his head in the humidity.. Then the communist veterans of Dienbienphu, hiding in the reeds on the shoreline, tormented me with their haunting trumpet version of the Marsaillaise. They must be sensative to my moods because I was thinking of Paris and Ricks nightclub in Casablanca and my gambling debts–maybe I could get some mark to pay them. Suddenly, I noticed the green line in the water that meant we had crossed the line into Cambodia. A few miles up the Mekong I got the call from Tricky Dick, and as he said the code phrase,“There are no U.S. troops in Cambodia” my deep programming, implanted so long ago in cold Manchuria, took over...The next thing I knew I was back at base with the sweaty beanie crumpled in my hand. I knew it was important but what did it mean? Whenever I thought about it I saw birds, black birds everywhere, I was running across the faces on Mt Rushmore and I couldn’t look down--I wanted to build a model of that mountain in my basement--and the word “Rosebud” rang through my tormented brain.
Posted by Gary K. Reynolds at August 12, 2004 05:39 PMIt was January of 2005, I was waiting to be sworn in as President of the United States. My life-long ambition was fulfilled and I knew that with this accomplishment my life would be fulfilled. The future was offering me a rosy picture. I looked at the love of my life in the mirror and decided that I was ready for what was to come.
Looking back, I wonder if I could have done things differently. Maybe cutting and running from Iraq, in retrospect, wasn't such a good idea, damn Jimmy Carter for making me do that.
All I know is that I'm glad I wasn't in DC, NYC or LA on that day. Damn terrorists, vaporizing my supporters.
Screw President Rice.
The young lieutenant beached the SWIFT boat he commanded and ordered his crewmates and their uninvited guest to disembark and set up camp. The uninvited guest stayed aboard, squatting near the stern like some kind of grizzled Buddha figure. He kept his boonie hat pulled low over his eyes as he pulled another drag on his stubby cigar. The crew’s mutt, VC, bounded out of the boat and ran up and down the beach, chasing flies and lizards.
As the other men went about setting up camp, one leaned into the young lieutenant and asked “What do we know about him, anyway?”
“Nothing. He told me to call him ‘Joe.’ Told me to take the boat across the border into Cambodia—even though President-elect Nixon’s says we’re not here—and then he’d tell me what we’d do next. Other than that, you know as much as I do.”
“Is it just me, or does he seem kinda mean?”
“No, he’s mean all right. I hear he once killed a man just for snoring too loud.”
The enlisted man cursed under his breath and drifted to where the others were working on the bivouac. The young lieutenant suddenly realized he was thirsty, and walked the few steps over to the camp to find something to drink. By some miracle, the men had managed to bring a case of Coca-Cola. The young lieutenant pulled a bottle from the case, popped the top and prepared to slake his thirst. It sure didn't feel like Christmas, swatting flies in this sweltering heat.
‘Joe’ suddenly stood, and though he tried to give off the air of a man of action ready for his mission, the young lieutenant could tell the man was tired to his bones. The way he carried his raincoat—draped over his slumped shoulder—and the way he shuffled his feet as he moved betrayed his fatigue.
‘Joe’ wordlessly slouched past the Swifties and headed for the jungle a few yards away, his gait heavy and slow. The young lieutenant, sensitive even in the midst of war, recognized that perhaps ‘Joe’ was as thirsty as he was.
“Hey Joe.”
The uninvited guest turned and looked, annoyance plain on his face, at the young lieutenant.
“Here.” The young lieutenant stretched out his hand, offering the untouched Coke to the beleaguered stranger.
To everyone’s surprise, ‘Joe’ stepped forward and took the Coke. For the first time since they had met him a few days earlier, the man attempted half a smile. The young lieutenant’s eyes rounded like giant saucers, and a grin split his face. ‘Joe’ put his head back and downed the Coke in one long gulp, then turned back toward the jungle and his appointment without a word.
The young lieutenant wilted.
‘Joe’ took a few steps, then stopped. He half turned back toward the young lieutenant, who had turned away to hide his dejection.
“Hey, kid.” The young lieutenant turned toward the stranger calling him. “Catch.”
With that, the stranger took off his hat and tossed it like a frisbee to the dejected young lieutenant.
The young lieutenant beamed. “Thanks, mean Joe.”
Without another word, ‘Joe’ disappeared into the Cambodian wilds, never to be seen again. The young lieutenant clutched the hat to his breast and sighed. He knew he would never part with this hat, which he now treasured above the pair of Purple Hearts he had already earned.
Posted by bp at August 12, 2004 05:42 PMAs the swift boat gently glided through the afternoon Cambodia swampland, Lieutenant Kerry and his crew began to notice just how accutely quiet it had become in the surrounding river delta.
Granted it was better than the alternative. For a Vietnam soldier, trapped miles inside Cambodia, the only thing creepier than the silence of a river delta was all the Christmas carols.
South Vietnam, also known as the Land of Christmas, had long celebrated the important holiday by drinking large quantities of spiked egg nog, wandering into Cambodia, and firing off their guns as an homage to St Nguyick. It was a tradition as old as Christmas itself.
Earlier in the morning the crew had been pelted with chorus after chorus of "Deck the Halls" echoing through the swampland from unseen voices. At this point, they would sooner go to their graves than have to hear one more chorus of "Fa ra ra ra ra, ra ra, ra ra."
But still the silence was chilling. Thankfully the two CIA frogmen who were getting a free ride into Cambodia, broke the tension and approached Kerry with a Christmas present they smuggled on board just for him.
The gift was wrapped in palm leaves and bailing wire, but since he wasn't expecting anything from his rag tag band of brothers, it was the prettiest gift he had ever seen. He tore through the wrapping as his crew looked on in anticipation.
It was a hat.
"That's the official secret CIA symbol there." noted CIA Agent Stuart Townsend of the red dot inside two concentric red circles featured prominently on the brow of the cap.
"It's on the back too." noted his CIA compatriot, Henry Jones. "You make sure you wear that everyday."
Kerry noticed that neither of the two CIA operatives was wearing a similar hat, prefering a full camo hat with a wide brim. Jones and Townsend immediately saw the look.
"Umm, we don't get to wear the hat until we've been in country for at least 90 days. That is the super secret special agent hat there." Jones explained.
With an uderstanding grin, Kerry took the hat and placed it on his elogated skull. Kerry wanted to record the moment for posteriety.
"Do you guys mind if I take a picture?"
Not at all they responded and Kery quickly began to organize the shot. He called out his long time gaffer, Hehn Lo, who had been best boy at his Ahn Tre shoot earlier in the year, to clear the deck of the extra equipment and get a light reading. His cinematographer, Dat Nguyen, had come down with scurvy earlier in the week and so he had to make do with his brother Tran for the camera work. Tran was fine, he had shot all of the cool background scenes in his "Welcome to Vietnam" montage earlier in the year, but he just did not have the artistic flair of Dat.
Fortunately, Hehn Lo had figured out how to draw power off the boat's battery to rig up a truly exceptional backgroud lighting display to create a real 'golden hour' feel to the shoot.
"Now just act normal, "Kerry directed as Lo turned on the lights, "But keep ducking every few seconds as if we are under constant fire. About thirty seconds into the shot, one of you fall off the boat and I will jump in and rescue you .... ready with the scene marker Mr. Lo!... Action!"
Tran carefully filmed the two men regiving Kerry the hat as they ducked from invisible incoming sniper fire, Kerry stood steadfast and motionless at the prow of the boat. Like Washington crossing the Delaware. All of a sudden Johnson fell of the side into the waist deep canal and Kerry jumped in after him and quickly flipped him back on deck.
"And cut! That's going into the archives for sure!" Kerry exalted. "Mr. Lo, check the gate and set up the craft sevices table! It's a wrap."
Posted by a man on the hill at August 12, 2004 05:44 PMMy entry:
http://posseincitatus.typepad.com/posse_incitatus/2004/08/kerry_fan_ficti.html
Dear Penthouse Forum-
I never believed the letters you received were true, until I had a mind-blowing experience I'd like to share with your readers. It was Christmas of '68 in Cambodia, and I was escorting an incredibly hot CIA agent on a secret mission. It was 95 degrees and humid, and sweat was glistening in rivulets that slowly ran down his chest and disappeared behind the half-buttoned fatigue shirt that barely concealed his now-hardening nipples. Imagine my surprise when he stripped off his hat without a word and handed it to me, all 7-3/4 of it...
Posted by Dave S. at August 12, 2004 06:01 PM"Cut the engine, men," whispered Lieutenant as the swiftboat slid quietly through the rice flows of the Mekong river. Standing on the prow, Kerry placed his left hand on his left hip while pointing the grenade launcher toward the far shore of Cambodia with his right hand. The American flag hung limply from the mast.
Quietly the men rowed on. Lt. Kerry urged the men forward. " Row, row, row the boat, gently down the stream...35 years from now this will just be a dream."
You peasants wouldn't be laughing if you saw me with my Purple Heart on!
Posted by JFK at August 12, 2004 06:12 PM"It was a dark and stormy night that Christmas Eve of 68. Rudolph had lost his way so my shipment of film cannisters from my parents (my Christmas gift) had not gotten through in time for me to take my camera with me on this secret rendezvous inside Cambodia. So all I have in way of proof of my being there is the searing images in my brain, imprinted there by the excessive heat, which can never be erased. The distinguished historian of New Orleans--Mr. Douglas Brinkley--was really pissed that I couldn't come up with film showing me standing at attention as we crossed the border, but he thought my searing memories were perhaps enough. Not that he had much choice. Anyway, midnight struck, and suddenly the air was awash with angels singing "Peace on Earth, Good will toward men". That's when I began to suspect I had gotten some really bad weed, and maybe I was lost. Besides , they were singing off key and it was really painful to listen to; I felt one of my migraines coming on, so I opened a cool one and toasted the angels: "Shut the f__k up, you bastards--you're twenty centuries late, and you're not supposed to be on this side of the border! Didn't Nixon inform you???" After the beer I felt really sleepy and mellow, and when I woke up I was back at Duc To, or wherever, and I stretched my lanky frame out of my bunk and announced to no-one in particular: "Merry f__king Christmas, everyone!"
Posted by marlowe anderson at August 12, 2004 06:13 PMAckley took another look at my hat . . . "Up home we wear a hat like that to shoot deer in, for Chrissake," he said. "That’s a deer shooting hat."
"Like hell it is." I took it off and looked at it. I sort of closed one eye, like I was taking aim at it. "This is a people shooting hat," I said. "I shoot people in this hat."
The boat's engine cut through the water. The air was warm and heavy, the moon hanging low in the night sky. The silhouette of the tall, handsome young liutenant and the older, grizzled CIA agent were etched against the inky horizon. All that could be heard was the throbbing of the engines and the occasional bird stirring from the Cambodian bush.
As they made their way down the river, their breathing grew louder as their tension increased. This was a dangerous mission, one which could never be revealed to anyone. The agent knew, however, that he was in good hands. The liutenant had been hand picked by his superior officers who had marveled at the young liutenant's navigation skills and his bravery in the line of fire. The liutenant didn't like to talk about it, but in his short time on the front lines he had already been gravely wounded a number of times. Each time, despite his wounds, he had insisted on rejoining his men, knowing that they depended on him to remain safe.
The boat stopped. "This is where I get off" said the agent, a slight catch in his voice. "Thanks for the ride". They nodded to each other silently, both knowing the peril the liutenant still faced. It would be a dangerous ride back to his base and if he was caught, they knew he would probably never be heard from again.
"Good luck, Sir" said the liutenant, giving him a crisp salute.
As the agent disappeared into the undergrowth, the liutenant called out "hey you forgot this!". The agent's hat lay on the boat's bench, still warm and wet from his perspiration. There was no reply from the dense jungle.
The liutenenant picked the hat up and held it close.
"This hat will be returned, I vow it!" he whispered, putting the agent's hat in his shirt . "And if I live", he thought "this memory will be seared - seared - in my brain till my dying breath". He turned the boat around for safer water, not knowing that the hat would not leave his side for the next 35 years, a grim reminder of the folly of humankind at war.
Posted by political junky at August 12, 2004 06:26 PMThere we were in enemy territory, on the Mekong Delta, which ran the border between Vietnam, Cambodia, USSR, Nazi Germany, and the Ottoman Empire. The most heavily defended water way in history, defended by suicidal islamofacists carring RPG-suitcase nukes laced with Anthrax. The mission was top secret, from Abraham Lincoln himself: "Find and destroy Ho Chi Min, Osama Bin Laden, and Adolf Hitler". It was Christmas Day and George W Bush had already told the American people that there were no troops in this part of the world, and yet here i was, alone on a solitary suicidal mission. My equipment included my snowboard, guitar, a bottle of Heinz, global warming, a tax raise, and my green hat that i found in the 'lost and found'....the memory of that day is seared in my mind that i would never forget it. Anyways the details of the mission is kinda fuzzy and i might or might not of been there
Posted by Kenny at August 12, 2004 06:27 PMA visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past, (in Cambodia). BAH HUMBUG!
Posted by Gary Grim at August 12, 2004 06:28 PMKerry stood on the prow of the boat, gazing at the Cambodian shoreline to either side. The CIA operative left his seat near the Mark 411-Z Autocannon and walked up beside him.
"I say, old boy," he said to Kerry in his British accent, "you could have dropped me at the border. Deuced risk you're taking."
Kerry coolly took a drag of his cigarette.
"The bridge at Lam Chahp's gotta be blown, or the entire NVA Assault Army Brigade will pour straight into Saigon. Then there's nothing between them and San Francisco."
"There's you, old chap."
Kerry gave him a sardonic grin, took a final drag, and casually tossed the butt into the river.
"I aim to get you to that bridge."
The CIA man looked at him with annoyance and admiration. "Blast it, Kerry, you're the most damnably stubborn man I know ... " - he paused - "And the bravest."
Suddenly they heard the pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the enemy flamethrowers...
"Walter!"
Walter Kerry was startled from his fantasy by the shriek of his wife Theresa in the passenger seat.
"Stop daydreaming! You almost ran that red light!"
"Yes, dear."
He mused that if he were Emporer of the World - or even President of the United States - he could be free from her nagging that kept him from his pleasant dreams. Ah, yes. President Walter Kerry, indomitable to the end...
My first Christmas back home after returning from 'Nam and 'Cam was rough for me. At the time, I was blind and still in a wheel chair and the only work I could get was as a door-to-door mirror salesman. I didn't make a single sale until a miracle occurred on Christmas Eve. As luck would have it I knocked on the door of Martin Sheen -- I think it was on the west side of his house -- and sold him the mirror that later made him famous. I still carry a fragment of that mirror in a wrinkled gunnysack hidden in an old green hat at the bottom of a battered briefcase, right beside the launch codes for Al Gore.
Posted by Brad Gibson at August 12, 2004 06:42 PMChristmas '68: Cruising up the MeKong on our way to Kampuchea. The Doors blasted through the stereo speakers. "LA Woman" - I'll never forget it. Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water" was our theme song, but I was jamming along with Mr Mojo Risin' on my guitar for a special lady. K-dog was water skiing, Rufus was piloting, she was sunning herself on the poop deck and we were all stoned immaculate.
The eight-track switched over. Man, what we had to put up with for state of the art sound. Then the song ended but I wailed off a few more licks before engaging the sweet little honey in scintillating conversation.
"So, you're with the CIA?" I said, casually setting my Hendrix autographed Strat into it's stand. Mom had sent it for Christmas just this year.
"Whadda yew tawkin' abowt?" she replied in that phony Brooklyn accent. "I'm a dansah, I'm here wit da USO. Not da CIA, da USO"
"Yeah, I said, admiring the curves." When were you last at Langley?"
She looked at me kinda funny "I know a guy named Frank Langley" she said "but he's a bum that can kiss my..."
"I know George HW Bush you know." I replied. "Went to school with his son. He's the head of the CIA. HW I mean, not his son. His son's a drunken frat boy, never will amount to much."
"I once danced at a drunken frat party. They tried to rip me off." She said, but she pronounced it "awf." OI loved that accent then, and I love foreign sounding accents to this day. "Yew gawt any tanning lotion?" she asked.
"CIA doesn't provide for all your needs, eh? Here, I've got some SPF 15. Want me to rub it on?"
"No tanks" she said, and took it from me.
"Yeah, lets hope so" I said.
"huh?" she asked.
"No tanks. You said no tanks. I said let's hope not."
"Yeah.. whatever. Look, I ain't CIA either. I'm USO. I don't care what Rassman said, he just wanted to make sure you'd let me on the boat, okay? Don't get angry wit him. He's a noice guy."
"Yeah, got it. Good cover, that USO thing. Hey, is this your hat?"
"Huh? Naaaw, dat ain't mine. I never seen dat before. Where's Rassman, anyhow?"
"Probably fell overboard again. You sure this isn't your hat?"
"It ain't my hat. Look at it. It looks like crap. Is that mold?"
"Maybe" I said. "Oh well, finders keepers. It's my hat now." I put the hat on my head and straped my guitar over my shoulder, and hit the "play' button on the remote. The opening chords of The Who's "Won't get Fooled Again" blasted, and I did my best Pete Townsend windmill thing. I'd seen them at Woodstock, I had it down.
Like I said...stoned. Immaculate. The sun was shining, she was sparkling, and I was singing, looking forward to the scream at the end. I could scream better than Daltry. Better than Janis Joplin even. The girls dig a good rockin' scream.
"Yeeeeaaargh" I belted it out.
"We won't get fooled again!"
Posted by Greyhawk at August 12, 2004 06:49 PMDave S.
Couldn't you have worked this in: "Sensing something amiss in the distance, perhaps the slightest sound of arrows in the distance knifing through the steam-thickened air, like pins in a tumbler..."
Actually, yours was pretty good.
Posted by moptop at August 12, 2004 06:51 PMThe concrete pilings arose in the gloom like the yellowed incisors of some river dragon. In between, a moored landing craft blocked the passage like a thick tongue. Beyond, down the dark, steaming maw, was Cambodia. We were headed for the belly of the beast.
It was Christmas 1968. There came a ripple in the constitutional-time continuum. Suddenly, I wept, mind seared by the temporal distortions on the very edge of my awakened social consciousness. Nixon had just become president of the United States. Somehow, I knew that he had always been president of the United States, at least during the Vietnam War. The fiend! My mind reeled. Now it was clear why I had been ordered into Cambodia. A part of my mind was grateful that no Democratic administration had a hand in this foul war.
I felt the radar returns from our surface search set and knew river to be impassable. The concrete pilings were too close together and the landing craft acted like a gate. I fought rising panic. My crew looked to me, and I showed no signs of concern on my long, impassive face.
Suddenly Kato, our South Vietnamese guide, was sitting cross-legged at my feet. He seemed to be floating a few inches above the deck, but it might just have been a trick of the shadows and fog. Kato was just a boy, really. His head was shorn smooth in the traditional style. Unlike the vast majority of our Vietnamese allies, who were Catholics and drunk as wake-full of Irishmen (I can say that because I plan to be Irish one day), Kato was a Buddhist. Like all non-Christian religions, his actually worked.
Kato's dark eyes seemed to drink my fear.
"Do not try and get around the concrete pilings," Kato said quietly. "That's impossible. Instead... only try to realize the truth."
"What truth?" I asked him.
"There are no concrete pilings."
"There are no concrete pilings?" I asked, incredulous.
"Then you'll see," Kato said. "That it is not the concrete pilings that bend for you, it is only the truth.”
I later found that major media outlets would also bend for me, if I willed it.
Armed with this wisdom I had only to shut my eyes and we were up river. But my sense of peace and wholesomeness soon was torn asunder by theatrically tracer-heavy automatic weapons fire ripping from the near bank, where our Vietnamese allies were, drunkenly, celebrating Christmas, as was their wont. This fusillade provoked a storm of return fire from the Khmer Rouge, North Vietnamese, ChiComs, and lost Japanese soldiers from World War 2 arrayed in a vast Oriental hoards on the far shore. The air was so alive with ordnance that I thought that I would assuredly be putting in for a Purple Heart before the night was old.
Fortunately, in my heightened state of awareness, each bullet seemed to approach me like a pitch that I would one day throw at Fenway Park. I easily assumed various manful poses so that each round passed me by, leaving me and my crisp uniform unharmed. My crew stared at me in wonder.
"Surely," they all proclaimed. "He is The One!"
Captain's Log, Stardate 196869.1
The vortex pulled relentlessly at the bow of the U.S.S. Swiftboat. Not nearly swift enough, perhaps, to reach escape velocity from the swirling quagmire that is the amorphous Mekong Delta Quadrant.
"Captain," Mr. Edwards alerted me, "censors are set to full power, but they're losing effectiveness. Shall I switch to tort?"
"More power to reverse," I ordered the Asian at the helm, who I only ever saw from behind.
"But, Captain," he uttered in that way when an inferior breed obviously worships your righteousness, "you just ordered full speed ahead..."
"How dare you question my patriotism!" I rightly corrected him. "I ordered full reverse before I ordered full steam ahead. A man at the helm should appreciate nuance! Now follow my orders!"
"Aye, aye. Setting autopilot to FlipFlop mode."
Storming off the bridge, I reminded Lt. Ta-RAY-za of our plan to gain support from the fly-over planet of Kansas IV. "Slow the Swiftboat to Warp 7," I said, "and I will wave from the mansion deck just before we reenter hyperspace."
"Do you think the people of Kansas IV will see you from down there?" The damn alien also was questioning my patriotism.
"No, but I will see them, and isn't that what's important?" Then it was off for some Fois Gras and Champagne.
Posted by Mick McMick at August 12, 2004 07:05 PMThe LT stood by his helmsman and watched the spook standing at the bow, staring quietly through the fog into Cambodia.
"Doesn't say much" said the helmsman, the LT grunted in reply.
"His accent says Texas"
"But his stance says Yale" replied the LT.
The navy officer walked forward, he didn't have much time left for conversation, Vietnamese artillery was starting Christmas a litle early.
"You know Nixon says we aren't here" said the LT.
The spook smiled, "everyone thinks I'm flying darts right now, you believe I went AWOL to come here?"
The LT looked startled as the spook swung off the boat into the dark jungle.
"Yep, I'm not supposed to be here either" he tossed a crumpled peice of green canvas to the LT, "here, keep it under your hat."
I remember that day like it was yesterday - actually, in a way, it was yesterday - but this is supposed to have taken place 35 years ago so I'll just say "like" yesterday.
Anyway.
It was either volunteer for Vietnam or take those skin-color changing tablets and try and buy a ham sandwich in New Orleans and that had already been done, and besides, I figured that kid named "Al" that I met while riding up Alpe de Huez in '66 already had an angle on the negro story. I figured I was going to need a "hook" when my time came, so it was Vietnam for me.
Looking back, my time in Vietnam was a blur - not because it moved so quickly but because there was something wrong with my video camera most of the time. I think that dog we kept around as a mascot pissed on it.
Anyway.
I'm here to talk about CIA Guy. This is how it happened.
"Kerry!" barked the Captain, "get over here and bring your boat! I need someone to run a special errand for me. Take this CIA Guy up the river. He has a load of grilled diver sea scallops and steak salads for Pol Pot."
"Pol Pot? Doesn't that mean going to Cambodia?"
"That's right, it does. You're not going to tell anyone, are you?"
"Absolutely not, sir. At least not until it's politically expedient, that is."
"That's good enough for me. Now get going. CIA Guy is waiting for you on the dock. You'll recognize him by his funny hat."
So I walked up to the dock and lo and behold there was someone standing there in a funny hat holding a grocery bag with the words "Newburgh Yachters Do It Better" written across the side. But it wasn't any CIA Guy, it was a woman. Wearing big round sunglasses. And a scarf wrapped around her head.
"Hi," she said, "I'm Valerie. And you are?"
"In love, if you're rich."
Posted by Johnny at August 12, 2004 07:22 PM[Found on a scrap of paper in the hidden compartment of a black briefcase case left on a Boston bus.]
Twas the night before Christmas,
and all through the SWIFT boat,
not an enemy was stirring, not even the 'kong.
The night orders lay on the capt. brown desk,
in hopes that Cambodians' soon would be dead.
The crew were nestled all snug at their posts,
while visions of Geisha girls danced in their heads.
With the gunner at his post, and I in my cap,
we had just settled down for a long boring patrol.
When out on the shore there arose such a clatter,
I fired a grenade, to see what was the matter.
Away from the danger, I flew like a flash,
did a job in my pants, and threw up my hands.
The moon on the water, reflecting just right,
gave the luster of midday to object on shore.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a camouflaged 'copter flown by a CIA spook.
[...]
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old spook,
and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of my eye and a cock of my hand,
soon gave him to know he had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
slipped from the SWIFT boat, then turned with a jerk.
And taking his green felt hat from his head,
he tossed it to me, then floated down the river.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he swam out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all but Cambodian's tonight!"
It was Christmas, 1968. As forewarned, my final visitor arrived at the strike of three. It was the ghost of Christmas future…Christmas, 1969… Richard Nixon was in the White House, and after touching my specter’s arm, I was whisked from my bed in Sa Dec, to a river five miles inside of Cambodia.
Posted by Kat at August 12, 2004 07:26 PMKerry was worried. Felix didn't usually act like this. In all the time Kerry had worked with his colleague- and friend- from the CIA, he'd never seen him so quiet. Kerry rolled his martini (shaken, not stirred) around his mouth and pondered the mission at hand.
M had ordered him to meet up with Felix in Cambodia, in direct defiance of Prime Minister Nixon's orders. Kerry wasn't sure what, or who, they were after, but he was about to find out.
At the push of a button, the Swift Sub converted silently to the Swift Boat that they would use once they entered the shallows of the Mekong. Thank goodness for Q. He was a clever one, even managing to hide a combination laser/plastic explosive/travel scrabble game in Kerry's prosthetic chin. That might come in handy, thought Kerry, pouring his second martini and joining Felix on the bow.
Just then, he was astonished to see a beautiful young Cambodian girl approach the riverbank and call out to them. "Hey Ferix, you rate!" The CIA man laughed, and guided the Swift towards the bank.
Kerry was dumbfounded as Felix jumped off the boat and waded ashore, whirling the girl around before kissing her passionately. He stammered, "Felix, what the bloody hell are you doing?"
"This is where I get off, doofus. Thanks for the lift", responded Felix. The spook and his woman turned towards the jungle, leaving Kerry behind. A single tear snaked down his heavily-botoxed cheek.
"Hey Felix! You forgot your hat!"
Posted by Rob at August 12, 2004 07:31 PM"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack boats taking fire near the Ho Chi Mihn Trail. I've watched Green Berets invade in the dark near the Phnom Penh gate. All those things will get lost in time with a bit of luck. Time to lie."
Posted by Kevin Murphy at August 12, 2004 07:41 PM'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the brush
If a creature was stirring, we were ready for ambush;
The mines were all placed in the river with care,
In hopes that a swift boat soon would be there;
The comrades were nestled all snug on their thatch beds,
While visions of Siagon danced in their heads;
And Charley with his 'red’ book, and I in my (black) ‘jama cap,
Had just settled down for a brief monsoon's nap,
When out on the water there arose such a clatter,
I awoke from my nap to see what was the matter.
Away to the blind I crawled like a snake,
Tore open the ammo and loaded as much as it would take.
The moon on the breast of the camouflaged scow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to object in tow,
When, what to my watering eyes should appear,
But a miniature boat, and eight yankee invaders,
With a tall thin driver, so cautious and wary,
I knew in a moment it must be Lt. Kerry.
More stealthy than habu his rowers they came,
And he whistled, quite shrouded, and whispered their name;
"Now, ALSTON! now, SANDUSKY! now, WHITLOW and BARKER!
on HATCH! on SHORT! on, ZALADONIS and WASSER!
Watch the mines in the river! Don’t let RASSMAN fall!
Now splash away! splash away! splash away all!"
As in silence that before the fire fight apply,
Ready to cross any border, and always deny,
So up to Cambodia the invaders they drew,
With PCF-44 full of boys, and Lt. Kerry too.
And then, with a tinkling, I heard in the area
The clicking and ticking of an 8mm camera.
As I loaded the mortar, and was turning around,
”Up the river” Lt. Kerry directed … gees what a clown.
He was dressed all in armor, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with rices and soot;
A bundle of film he had flung on his back,
And he looked like Frank Capra blocking the act.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! his pupils how merry!
They passed the Four Roses, and a doobie for Kerry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up to blow,
but the borders of his eyes were as white as the snow;
The stump of a hash pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a gaunt face and a 20 something belly,
And he shook, when he moved like a cart full of jelly.
Not chubby or plump, wouldn’t fit his image self,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
The glint in his eye and the hat on his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And positioned the cameraman; then turned like a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the river bank he rose;
After yelling “cut”, to his team gave a whistle,
And away went the crew never drawing their pistol.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he floated out of sight,
"GOOD BYE CAMBODIA … HELLO HOUSE WHITE!"
"The smell of GoofyGrape kool-aid brings me back to the jungles of Vietnam because it's seared in my memory how that Christmas night I poured it in my canteen to hide the taste of the water purification tablets even as the purple haze of GoofyGrape-smoke canisters drifted by on the opposite shore after it was popped to mark our position for overflights of fast movers as I listened to the incoming rounds from the NVA, VietCong, VietMinh, Khmer Rouge, Pathet Lao, deranged French lost for years in the jungle, Chinese volunteers, Russian anti-aircraft crews, confused South Vietnamese allies and Ho Chi Minh personally, over the sound of Christmas music on Armed forces radio just after the Bush speech saying we weren't in Laos... as I clasped my lucky hat given to me by John McCain personally to my breast" -- JForbes "callsign Boston Strangler" Kerry(D)
Posted by DANEgerus at August 12, 2004 07:44 PMThe Gift of the C.I.A. Magi
By O Kerry
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And piece of souvenir grenade shrapnel. Three times John counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
“Kerry” read the simple tag on his khaki shirt, with insignia showing he was a Lieutentant, JG. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and he had only $1.87 with which to buy ‘Agent X’ a present.
He had been saving every penny he could for three months, with this result. One hundred dollars a week plus combat pay doesn't go far, even in Vietnam, even in 1968. Expenses had been greater than he had calculated. There was the 8mm camera for the battle re-enactment movie, plus the film, and the soft-focus lens. Only $1.87 left to buy a present for the Agent. His Agent. Many a happy hour they had spent planning a secret illegal mission upriver to Cambodia, despite Nixon’s denials.
Now, between them there were two possessions in which they both took a mighty pride. One was John’s Purple Hearts, which he had earned in ferocious battles. Had Alvin York himself been in the company barracks, John would have displayed the gleaming decorations just to depreciate the Sergeant’s puny array. The other was the Agent’s map of the Cambodian Mekong. Had James Bond been on assignment in Saigon, Agent X would have pulled out his map every time he passed just to see him claw at his strangling-wire watch from envy.
John steeled himself for the sacrifice he was about to make.
Where he stopped the sign read: "Mr. Nguyen. Buy Sell Trade Cash. Come On In GI Joe." One flight up John and collected himself.
"Will you buy my medals?" asked John.
"I buy medals, okay," said Nguyen. "I take look at them, okay Joe?"
Out poured the glittering purple cascade.
"Twenty dollar," said Nguyen. “Or maybe you like nice briefcase.”
The briefcase. It surely had been made for the Spook and no one else. There was no other like it anywhere, oxblood cordovan leather with a secret compartment for the Agent’s beloved Cambodian map.
"Give it to me quick," said John.
When John returned to the base he waited for the Spook at his tent, clutching the attache case. He ran his fingers across his breast pocket where the medals once hung and whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still mission-capable."
The flap opened and Agent X stepped in. He looked thin and very serious. His eyes were fixed upon John, and there was an expression in them that the Lieutenant could not read, and it terrified him. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at John’s bare breast pocket with a peculiar expression on his face.
"Agent X," cried the Lieutenant, "don't look at me that way. I sold my medals because I couldn't have gone on our covert mission tomorrow without giving you a present. I’ll earn more medals--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. Say `Merry Christmas!' Agent X, and let's be happy. You don't know what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've sold your medals?" asked Agent X, laboriously.
"All of them," said John. "Don't you think I’m still a hero anyhow? I'm me without my medals, ain't I?"
Agent X seemed quickly to wake from his trance.
"Don't worry Lieutenant," he said, "Nothing would convince me -- or Nixon himself -- that you aren’t the man for Operation Secret Santa. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you gave me a start."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; for there lay The Hat--the handsome magical hat that Agent X had purchased in a Da Nang street market.
“It was for good luck on our secret mission,” said Agent X. “Something to pin your medals to.”
John hugged it to his bosom, and looked up with dim eyes and a smile and said: "I get medals so fast, Agent X!"
Then John held out the briefcase eagerly upon her open palm. "Isn't it a dandy, Agent X? I hunted all over town to find it. It has a secret compartment for your Cambodia mission map! Open it!”
Instead of obeying, Agent X put his hands on John’s shoulder and smiled.
"Lieutenant," said he, "you keep both our Christmas presents. I sold my map to get the money to buy your hat. Carry the magic hat with you in the beautiful briefcase, and remember this, our special day, when you become President."
The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They also invented the art of the covert Christmas mission. Not everyone today believes that story either, but you don’t see Fox News asking for proof that it happened.
Read the whole thing here:
http://electriccommentary.blogspot.com/2004/08/reductio-ad-absurdum.html
Excerpt:
"Maybe so," said Brian, "but how do you plan to respond? And why aren't you eating Wendy's? You told Edwards that you would participate in his tradition. Where did you get that fois gras?"
"There was a gourmet French restaurant right next to the Wendy's! What are the odds? So you see, I basically did go to Wendy's."
"Sir?"
"It was right next door," said John, in the monotone voice he used when he was excited, "I was practically there!"
"Sir, this will not sell well in the Midwest. We need those votes."
"I've been great in the Midwest! Why just the other day we took that boat into Illinois..."
"That was Wisconsin, sir."
Posted by PaulNoonan at August 12, 2004 07:59 PM
The jungle breeze carried a scent of decay down from Charlie’s side of the river. I waited, patiently, for just the right moment. The sun was dropping low in the sky on its way down. Soon. Very soon. But not yet. I glanced at Eddie crouched low in the boat, steadying himself on the gunwales. The sun would be behind him and there’d be no glare. Good man. I was glad to have him with me, and Big Jim up in the gun tub too. Both were rock solid, and too much of the future was riding on this to worry about my crew. I reminded myself not to rock the boat too much when I jumped off. It wouldn’t do to ruin Eddie’s aim at that one critical instant. That instant would be the most important shot of the whole mission.
I checked my own equipment. The M-16 at my side had a full clip, with three more on the bandolier across my chest. Grenades hung off me – enough of them that I probably looked like a pineapple tree. A small pang of worry hit me over that. Maybe I had too many. I rubbed my arm, the spot where Doc Leston had removed that piece of white-hot shrapnel. It still hurt sometimes, and the Purple Heart didn’t always ease the pain. Yes, grenades could be dangerous. But I needed them, no getting around that.
The sun sank a little lower. I looked out at the river bank in front of me. From the bow, it was a short, easy jump, then another ten or twenty yards to the crest of the hill. The golden light from the setting sun blazed against the foliage. In an instant, everything was lit perfectly, magically. From above me, I heard Big Jim whisper “Now! Go!”
I glanced back. Eddie nodded, blackened metal glinting slightly in his hands as he pressed the trigger. I rose, carefully, and leaped for the bank. Suddenly, the boat lurched beneath me, throwing me off balance. My foot slipped and I cut my knee on the forward cleat before I tumbled over the side into the mud. My helmet had slipped over my eyes, I never buckled the strap, and I was blinded for a moment. But I could hear Big Jim yelling, and then Eddie was there, standing over me.
“Cut.” Eddie said, letting the camera drop to his side. “Dammit John,” he said, shaking his head. He looked up at the sky, at the fading sky. “Now you’re all muddy. By the time you get cleaned up and change into a new uniform, the light will be gone. We’ll have to film this again tomorrow. What did you trip on, anyway?”
I looked him square in the eye as I stood. I set my jaw as firmly as I could. “I don’t fall down.” I said. “That S.O.B,” I pointed at Big Jim, “he bumped me.”
All the submissions have been fantastic, but I think IowaHawk wins it hands down.
Posted by King of Fools at August 12, 2004 08:24 PMIt was a dark and lonely night, as nights tend to often be, and the patrol boat drifted silently down the muddy river like some kind of floating vessel gently cutting through a very small and narrow body of water. There were trees, too.
But my mind was too busy racing to pay much attention to the world around me. "How in the world was I going to get THREE purple hearts" I kept asking myself. It just didn't seem possible to do in such a short time, but if my days in France had taught me anything it was to never give up and never surrender. I would need this kind of strength if I was to survive all four months of my tour of duty.
The craft grinded to a halt and I could see looks of fear and anticipation come over my crewmates' faces. I stood up from my crouched location and started looking around the shoreline.
"Get down, Lurch!" someone called to me.
I knelt down behind another crewmate and readied my M16. "What is it?" I called quietly out to my crew.
"A sampan," said a third shipmate.
"What's that?"
"It's a boat, retard." said a voice from behind me.
"I like boats." I replied slowly. But something about this boat didn't seem quite right. Perhaps it was the looming fog around us, or maybe it was the site of all the poor-people emerging from the craft...
"Poor People!" I cried in panic. "Oh, God! Kill them all!"
My crew let loose with a barrage that shredded the shoreline to swiss cheese. My M16 jammed and I quickly picked up a grenade launcher to finish the job. It was at that moment that I spotted a vietcong guerilla camoflauged as a rock. I let lose a grenade straight at him, but damn if he wasn't thick skinned! The bouncing shrapnel caught me in the arm... wait, no... I dodged my shrapnel and then the rock launched a grenade at me... yeah. In a fit of heroism that could rival Superman I threw my body across this deadly grenade and saved my entire crew, as well as the crews of all the other boats in the area.
The wound was grotesque - a smoldering mass of charred skin and lacerated wrinkles that was more like Teresa Heinz's face than a man's forearm. I resisted the urge to bandage the wound, and instead called for my crew to lug my ass twenty miles to the nearest hospital. I could see the look of anger and shame in their faces - anger and shame for not being able to save me from the shrapnel.
At the hospital I met with the doctor who oddly enough had the same look of anger in his face.
"What are you doing here, you don't need a doctor!" he called at me.
"You think I need a priest, right?" I replied coldly. "Well I'm not going to die. You underestimate my strength. Just remove the shrapnel and give me a band-aid... I'll heal later."
"You don't need a band-aid!" he cried out again.
"Listen, doc, I appreciate your concern for my well being, but surgery is out of the question."
He relented and pulled the piece of shrapnel out of my arm with a pair of forceps.
"Its about the size of a dime," he pronounced after having it cleanly removed.
It was the biggest dime I'd ever seen, but I resisted the urge to question his eyesight. Instead I placed the band-aid over my hideous skin and made my way toward the exit. I could feel the emotion stirring inside of me like a violent storm.
"Doctor," I said through building tears, "thanks for saving my life."
"Just leave," he said and returned to his other patients.
Posted by M McBride at August 12, 2004 08:26 PMFrom: jsevins@halliburton.ir
To: krove@whitehouse.gov
Subject: Operation X68
Mr. Rove,
Good News! We just received a sealed letter dated December 10th, 1968. It's from "Joe". The insertion was successful. He arrived in time to replace the target. He's received orders to depart in two days. Barring any unforseen circumstances, he should be in place by the 23rd.
Judging by current events, the Temporal Team theorizes that altered events may leave pieces of unaltered memories. However, these memories seem to be intermingled with the new memories. Affected individuals likely cannot tell the difference between them, and may seem confused. I suggest that you tell O'Niell to take advantage of this. Also, tell him that, due to the success of Operation X68, we are ready to begin Operation PH-3, and Operation SS. He can begin pushing these more.
Dr. Jason Sevins
Temporal Team
Halliburton, Iraqi Division
One State
Two State
Red State
Blue State
This one has a Lone Star (uh-oh!)
This one has a Giant Car (but it's not mine; it's my family's!)
My what a lot of flyover states there are!
From east to west, from north to south
Ta-RAY-za just can't shut her mouth!
Pup is up (blown out of our swiftboad)
Pup is down (landing in another! Wow!)
Mr. X is out of town! (But he left his green hat)
From seared to fuzzy, from fuzzy to ne'er,
Fuzzy memories are everywhere!
Hop! Hop!
Hop on Pop!
STOP! Don't question Pop's patriotism!
Posted by Mick McMick at August 12, 2004 08:45 PMIt was Christmas, 1968. We had traversed the Mekong River that runs between Vietnam and Cambodia, and we went further, we took it up, up, past Laos, up through the highland jungles, all the way to the river's source waters in the Himalaya. My crew was nervous. We were not supposed to be there. President Nixon, having taken office a several weeks early (tricky Dick!!!) was telling the world that there were no US forces in the Himalaya. "Don't worry, mon amis" I reassured them, "when McGovern is President there will be no more war and no more poverty and no more evil in the world." They shivered with cold and fear. It was then that we stumbled upon Sir Edmund Hillary. . .
For some reason Hillary keeps popping up in all my bad dreams.
Posted by Sergio at August 12, 2004 08:47 PMAct 2,SCENE 4,No Christmas this Year:
Jingle bells were not heard that night as the bow of our midnight raid crossed into Cambodia.
"Monsieur American", whispered the commander,"ready le guns".
The crew was liberally daubed with facial camoflauge, the boat festooned with netting and river fronds as we approached the shore. It was pitch black on the river.
"Do you hear anything from the jungle? Ze natives are awake...." he crooned softly.
Suddenly the night expoloded as a battalion of Vietnamese troops opened fire from both shores. A screaming teenager wearing only a loin cloth but brandishing an RPG ran onto a muddy bank and aimed at the boat."Death to Amerika! Death to Nixon".
"Shoot! Shoot le partisan!" screamed Lt. Kerry, a smoldering cigarette in the corner of his mouth`.
A river of glowing tracers flew from our guns, .50 calibers all.
With incredible grace and dislaying a joi de livre the Lieutenant drew his pistol and fired into the boy as he turned his back for a , eh...., better aim at the vessel.
He falls into the river, his body trailing a rivelet of blood, shining black in the dim light.
Do all my In My Worlds with JK in them count as entries?
Posted by Frank J. at August 12, 2004 09:00 PMA cool wind swept up from the Cambodian jungle below me as I swung in the breeze. Looking up I could tell that my CIA charge hadn’t made it out; In the soft pre-dawn I could still see the plane’s silhouette falling into the jungle aflame with streaming gasoline.
“Now what?—the recon pilot would remain unrescued.”
The cute swayed and veered left and I dropped my camera.
“shit—I needed that footage.”
A snake bumped into my foot and slithered off into the coming dawn. The sound of cicadas above my head was as loud as a siren.
Cambodia didn’t look any different than the delta, and I had to figure out how to get back to the Mekong with just a compass and a transistor radio.
Wiping my chin and weighing the situation in my head, I jumped as a tattered green hat landed in the thicket 5 yards distant.
“Hmm—that might come in handy..” I pulled the chute pack off and picked it up. The Gods of fate were smiling at last.
Call me Schlemiel.
It was a damp Christmas Eve on the deck of the Boston Whaler as it plowed through the muck and mire often encountered five miles inside the border of Cathay, four months journey from the creature comforts of New England.
Our quest, and God hear our prayer that we meet not the devil for it, was to find and kill the Stupid White Whale.
The injury I had sustained to my buttock would probably require my getting a wooden peg leg. No, a common bandage, composed of petroleum resin would not suffice, I swear this most holy of nights.
But that would not deter me from my vengeance on Moby Dick Cheney.
"Halliburton!" the parrot croaked, again and again. "Halliburton! squawk!"
A cry came from the crow's nest: "Ho!"
Land? Could we have reached the opposite shore of the Mekon River already, this most uncrossable of streams? "Did you cry 'Land Ho,' Mister?" I demanded.
"No, sir, just Ho!" he replied. "Ho, ho, ho!!!!"
Then I realized it wasn't a crow's nest at all. Nor was I on a Boston Whaler. Nor were we in Cambodia, at the behest of a corrupt President Taft.
I was in my living room, and Santa was sliding down the chimney.
Weeeee!
Posted by Mick McMick at August 12, 2004 09:26 PMTwas the night before Christmas and right next to Laos,
The enemy was feasting on dog meat and mouse.
We cruised the Mekong to Cambodia with care,
Cause President Nixon told us to go there.
My crewmen were getting all drunk on the boat,
By pouring Jim Beam right down their fat throats.
Without a clue and without even a cap,
I had passed out cold right on top of my map.
I dreamed of big breasts at the USO Show,
Giving a straight hardness to my package below.
Then what to my sleepy eyes should appear,
But a CIA Spook and a 6-Pack of beer.
He was a smart little guy, so lively and quick,
He threw me a beer and said "Just call me Rick."
More rapid than eagles his commands all came,
as he yelled at my crew and called them by name:
"Yo Dennis and Danny and Patrick and Vinny!
Common Charles and Colin and Donald and Billy!
To that concrete border and over that wall,
To Cambodia we sail, to Cambodia all!"
At the pylons he hugged me and gave me his hat,
then pounced into the jungle like a nimble black cat.
But I heard him exclaim as he hiked out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all - give them one hell of a fight!"
John Kerry's heart froze at the look on Theresa's face. "What is it, Sweetheart?"
Theresa threw herself into her husband's arms. "Oh, John, I just heard that the Atkins diet has totally destroyed the ketchup industry. The Heinz company is bankrupt! My fortune is destroyed! We're paupers!"
Kerry smiled into Theresa's eyes as he gently stroked her back. "Don't worry, Darling. Your money didn't mean anything to me, anyways."
Theresa sniffed. "Oh, John, I knew you truly loved me!"
Kerry wiped a tear from his wife's cheek. "Keep your chin up, my love - money isn't everything. After all, we still have each other. I promised to love you for richer or for poorer, and I meant it!"
Without the Heinz money, the Kerry campaign was finished. Hilary successfully took over the Democratic nomination and won the Presidency.
But John Kerry was true to his word. He stayed with Theresa in spite of her poverty, living in a dumpy, rat-infested apartment and surviving on rations of beans and rice (although they did occasionally splurge for a trip to Wendy's). But the Kerrys hardly noticed their surroundings; true love is indifferent to such trivial affairs. And they lived happily ever after.
Scene: Vietnam, 1968, 100 miles from Cambodian border
::cue Creedence Clearwater Revival song::
"Kerry!"
"Lt. Kerry, reporteeeeeeeng for doooooooty, suh!"
"Would you f*cking stop doing that? Now, what's this I hear about you running spooks into Cambodia?"
"Well, sir, I entered Cambodia on several occasions before I decided I was near the Cambodian border."
Posted by Mr, Beamish at August 12, 2004 10:16 PMJFK Personal Journal
24-12-68 23:30 hrs.
Sa Dec, The Area Between The Sea of China and the Norwegian Border
Just returned from another double-secret mission. I wore the lucky hat that Sgt. Saunders gave me when I dropped him off last month at Villers-Bocage, along with Kirby, Cage and Little John. I was only wounded 6 times tonight: I think it was either Spetznaz or Maoris, so we had to be close to Belize at the time. I guess the hat mojo works. But then, as Ma Mere always said, "Comme il faut; cherchez le chapeau." The bittersweet memory sears my soul. And conscience.
Tonight I was very near Nairobi, dropping off E. Howard Hunt,a CIA guy. He said he had some spook business in La Paz with Howard Hughes He was very impressed with how I held my hand in the flame of the burning torches which I have come to use as searchlights on PCF 44. Said he only knew of one guy, some nut from the FBI, who was courageous enough to do that. I laughed bitterly, told him I was more concerned with my conscience, and telling America the Truth. We took some 5.9 fire from the 2nd Royal Welsh Fusiliers, who were doubtless celebrating St. David's Day. We must have gotten closer to Jalalabad than I intended. I only lost my spleen, so I won't have to turn it in, and won't miss any secret-mission time. They might make me leave my crew if I turn in too many wounds. I laugh bitterly at the ironic irony.
I'm exhausted by the irony and bitterness which well up in me as I hear a president-to-be-named-later say we're not in space. Not in space! And my secret mission docking with the Soyuz spacecraft, 20 or 500 miles high above a spot somehwere between El Alamein and Canberra, still seared - seared- on my soul. And they never would have gotten home without me. I laugh bitterly at the bitterness.
I write a bitter and ironic card to Admiral Nimitz: "Season's greetings from the only Swifties to have occupied Hanoi." I smirk ironically to think they wouldn't have Ho Chi Minh if I hadn't captured him.
I'm still very concerned that Admiral Zumwalt told me in Zurich last month that my missions were so sensitive they would likely remain denied and unverified forever. Well, I suppose that's just the way it is: I have learned much from Chuck Conners in "Branded".
Well I'm tired. Think I'll sleep in the twin-.50 cupola, just so I'll be ready to face the danger in case the Hittites attack like last week. I laugh bitterly at the irony.
Posted by John Earnest at August 12, 2004 10:36 PM
Katie Couric: "What was like, in Cambodia? How did you get there?"
John Effin Kerry: "Immediately after beaching my boat as I fled enemy fire, I was captured by a gang of Cambodian teenagers. They led me back into the jungle—I’d say about five miles into Cambodia. They took my 8mm camera, and started filming me. At one point, they brought out Pongo, a Cambodian Panda bear, who was trained to...trained to…"
KC: "Go ahead, we’re on the same side, I promise—"
JFK: "He was trained to...well, trained to have relations with me. Real friendly-like. I still remember their laughter as Pongo…"
KC: "Yes?"
JFK: "I can’t speak of it. They were filming…and laughing. They said, ‘Al Gore will put this on the Internet.’ I couldn’t believe it."
I led my band of brothers onto the field, and here (and it's seared in my memory; seared, I tells ye!) we performed the brave act that earned three Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, an Iron Cross, a Dick Tracy Decoder Ring, a Purple Buttock, a Diamonique Pendant, and the Crown Jewels of England, all simultaneously:
BOOM chugga lugga lugga
BOOM chugga lugga lugga
BOOM chugga lugga lugga . . . BOOM!
"John Kerry reporting for duty!"
And I do not, repeat: do NOT, confuse my own life with people I see on the screen at the cinema.
Posted by Mick McMick at August 12, 2004 11:33 PMIs plagiarized work eligible? Because if so, I would like to submit a horror classic.
Johnny Kerry and the Screamin Dude
Posted by DimPenumbra at August 13, 2004 02:09 AMWe were about five miles inside Mouse Town, and you could feel - feel! - the excitement in the air.
See these mouse ears? Donald Duck gave me these mouse ears when we took him on the Pirates of the Carribean ride. I carry them everywhere I go. They're my lucky mouse ears.
I remember July 4th, 1974, riding a Chrysler down I-40. I remem
