Why I Sat Under an

Olive Tree in
Calenzano, Italy,
27 March 1994,
Set to Flames My
United States’
Passport,
Dried My Eyes,
and Then Returned
Home
to Write a Letter
Renouncing My
 United States’
Citizenship
A Testing of the Value of Democratic
Principles in the
United States of America

Preface
When I think of apples, I think of whipped cream;
and, when I think of whipped cream, I think of
apples.
I have never been able to ascertain the
reason/reasons
for this mental modus operandi, not even from any
of my favorite “philosophical friends”:
David Hume, Bertrand Russell and Jean-Paul Sartre.
When I think why I sat under an olive tree in
Calenzano, Italy, 27 March 1994, set to flames my
United States’ passport, dried my eyes, and then
returned home to write a letter renouncing my
United States’ citizenship, six words scurry
unhesitatingly through my mind: TOO MANY LIES,
TOO MANY TIMES;
and I have reason to believe why I think so: On My
Northamerican Dream-My Northamerican
 Nightmare Ledger Sheet (Immanuel Kant), the
Nightmare checks far overbalance the Dream ones.
I readily grant that my tallies on the Northamerican
Dream side bring back many excessively tender
memories, many joyous occasions, many “funny
inside feelings,” and many truly good times. These
reflections remind me of several actual feelings that
I am both proud and happy to carry the memories of
with me still. They are part of me and will always
be. I am profoundly disappointed that my Nightmare
scores far outweigh my Dream scores. In renouncing
my United States’ citizenship I have acted to
attempt to make my life more whole and rewarding
for myself. And, then, for others.
In this brief written arrangement, three of those
Nightmare checks, causes that provide logical sense
for my premise, taken randomly, will be elaborated
upon. The third motive succeeds the second, in
time, almost without intervention.
I sincerely hope this exposition will stimulate
productive debate.
Anthony St. John 31 August 1994 Calenzano, Italia

The First Tyranny of a Majority

 The Iron Rule of an
Unaccountable Greater
Number
I “said” my first Mass in
Brooklyn, New York when Other boys and girls
I was seven or eight played on the sidewalks
years old, and my next- or in the street in front of
door friend, Gerry, served us. And we wished one
as my altar boy. Later, day we might “hear”
we switched their confessions and
impersonations, and he save them from the red
“said” his first Mass. hot fires of an
interminable Hell. I had
We used a varied no qualms about not
assortment of articles we being outside with those
saw the priests in our “ruffians” because it had
parish church, St. been embedded in my
Nicholas, employ when brain that one day I
they “said” Mass. We would offer those sinners
used candy wafers as (“I hate, Lord, those who
communion hosts which hate you”!) a service
Gerry and I changed into which would connect
the Body of Jesus Christ. them to a higher and
A wine glass served as a mightier afterlife full of
chalice and Coca-Cola happiness and reward in
was transubstantiated a Paradise made in the
into the Blood of Jesus image of God Himself.
Christ. My father’s scarf
(stole) was hung over my When I held the “host” in
shoulders at the back of my hands and touched
my neck to show that I the chalice with Christ’s
could officiate. We used “blood” in it, goose
women’s gowns and bumps popped out all
bathrobes (chasuble and over me. I could not wait
alb). We made birettas to enter the seminary my
out of black art paper…a mother had chosen for
dictionary was our me to attend when I
missal…oil and vinegar reached the age of
utensils were our twelve. I wanted so
cruets…a saucer was our fervently to change real
paten…one of mother’s hosts and real vin santo
rings was our bishop’s into the Body and Blood
ring…. We laughed when of Jesus Christ. I could
we dismissed our only make believe, for
imaginary congregation now, that I was a priest. I
parodying the Latin spent long periods in the
phrase “Dominus joy of knowing I had been
vobiscum” with “Dominic, “touched on the shoulder
go frisk them!” by God” to serve Him as
one of His personal
servants, and I took my
vocation very seriously.
And unlike Bertrand
Russell, I did not
contemplate killing
myself at the tender age
of five because I could
not see clear to believe in
a Supreme Being. I was
living in a Roman
Catholic dream world
that promised me a
happy, useful life and I
was enjoying every
minute of it.
* * * method dependent on
I will never be able to
know how many times
the word “catholic”
formed on my lips, and I
will never be able to
count how many Catholic
people crossed the path
my life was following
when I was a boy. I had
been born in a Catholic
hospital…I delivered to
Catholic homes the
Catholic newspaper, The
Tablet…I sold a Catholic
monthly magazine, The
Catholic Digest, outside
St. Nicholas Church on
Sunday mornings…I went
to summer camp run by
Catholic members of the
Catholic Youth
Organization…my doctor
was Catholic…my dentist
was Catholic…John, the
butcher, was Catholic
and his sons went to
Catholic schools…when I
came home from a trip to
my uncle’s home in the
suburbs of Chicago, my
mother asked me if the
friends I had met there
were Catholics…I
initialled “J.M.J.” (Jesus,
Mary and Joseph) at the
top of every page I wrote
on in every Catholic
school I attended…I
watched Bishop Fulton J.
Sheen’s Catholic
television program every
Tuesday night not
understanding ever what
he was talking about but
always wishing to grow
up to be like him…my
mother and father’s
friends were Catholic and
they talked about their
Catholic friends…the sex
manual in my parents’
bedroom, where I
sneaked to read, was
written by a Catholic
psychiatrist who
advocated a birth control
continence during the
period of female
ovulation…I ate fish on
Friday because I was a
Catholic…I said a prayer
for the dead and blessed
myself when I passed a
Catholic cemetery…I
bought Catholic raffle
tickets…all the books I
read were Catholic and
imprimatur and nihil
obstat were stamped on
their title pages…many
of the Catholic authors of
these Catholic books
were tagged with “S.J.” or
“O.F.M.” or “O.P.”…
Catholic priests dined at
my home…my mother
chauffeured Catholic
nuns to their Catholic
doctors and Catholic
dentists…my
scoutmaster was
Catholic…drunken
Catholic World War II
veterans drank green
beer in our kitchen in the
early morning hours…my
barber was Catholic…I
would never have been
given permission to work
for Irish Catholic William
F. Buckley, Jr.’s National
Review had he been a
Jew…my tonsils were
extracted in a Catholic
hospital and Catholic
nuns nursed me…our
1953 Chevrolet was from bottles blessed by
blessed and sprinkled her Orthodox Catholic
with Catholic holy parish priest…I carried
water…the calendar in wooden rosary beads,
our kitchen was decked “blessed by the Pope,”
with saints and their wherever I went…I
days…we had a poor box stopped what I was doing
in our house to collect at high noon to say three
money for foreign Hail, Mary’s for the
missionaries…under the Angelus…when I served
rear-view mirror of our Mass in real churches, I
Chevy a plastic Jesus, wished someday I would
with a magnet under be able to say my own
Him, stood firm and fast Masses, and I studied
and His right hand was carefully the habits of all
upped with His blessing… priests…I confessed my
a St. Christopher’s medal sins at least once a
was attached to the sun week…I got my Catholic
visor…my father’s boss throat blessed every year
was Catholic…when I left on St. Blaise’s Day…each
the seminary I was told I Ash Wednesday I went to
would attend Catholic school with a black-gray
university—or else…I spot on my Catholic
went to Catholic parties forehead…I worked
with Catholic boys and cleaning altar rails and
Catholic girls…my altar steps and bronze
favorite baseball player flower pots and other
was Brooklyn Dodgers’ Catholic accruements in
first baseman, Gil the sacristy and, one day,
Hodges, a Catholic…my when a nun dropped a
parents dreamed of a trip 24-hour glass vigil candle
to Europe to see the Pope on the floor and
and his cathedrals…I screamed SHIT!!!, I ran
went to Irish-Catholic home, in a state of shock,
wakes where everyone anxious to tell my mother
was drinking Irish what the Dominican nun
whisky…we stopped at had blurted out in
Catholic churches along church…I filched un-
the highway…when away consecrated hosts, ate
in a hotel, the first them by the handfuls,
question my mother and washed them down
asked the receptionist with what was left at the
after registration was: bottoms of discarded vin
“Where can we hear santo bottles…I said the
Mass on Sunday?”…no Catholic “grace” before
room in my home did not meals to thank God for
possess a Catholic statue what had been put on the
or Catholic crucifix or plate before me…our
Catholic holy picture… insurance agent was
behind our apartment Catholic…the man who
building there was a mended my shoes was
Catholic convent, and I Catholic…I went on
spied on the veil-less summer vacations to my
nuns frolicking in the relatives’ homes
grass, through the knot- scattered about the
hole in our wooden United States and went
fence…my grandmother to their Catholic churches
from the Soviet Union on Sundays…I went to
gave us sips of vodka see films only after
checking out, in The
Tablet, whether or not
they were good for me to
see…I took home
Catholicly-blessed palms
on Palm Sunday…I had
sport shirts with the
names of Catholic
universities printed on
them…when I served
Catholic funeral Masses, I
listened to the Dies Irae
sang so sadly in the choir
loft…I put extra charcoals
in the thurible so that the
church would fill up with
bellows of smoke from
Catholicly-blessed
incense…I knew well the
smells of nuns and their
freshly-starched Catholic
habits and their soapy
skins…I knew the sound
of their huge black
Catholic rosary beads
rattling as they walked…I
knew, too, the blackness
of Catholic priests—their
black cars, their black
bags, their black socks,
their black suits, their
black pens, their black
hats, their black pipes,
their black luggage…I
smiled when I saw
“black” priests turned
into “green” priests in the
Army…I made three-day
Catholic retreats far from
my home…I bought
Catholic birthday gifts for
my friends…I collected
holy pictures and could
not wait to go to another
wake and add to my
collection—just as other
The Second Tyranny
of a Majority
kids collected baseball
cards…when I watched
the N.B.A. basketball
games on TV, I looked for
those players who had
attended Catholic
universities…my mother
always pointed out to me
who the Catholic actors
or actresses were on TV…
books with Catholic
themes were on our book
shelves at home…I wore
something green on St.
Patrick’s Day every
year…we had plastic holy
water fonts posted near
the entrances of our
bedrooms…Catholic
music, Catholic games,
Catholic clubs, Catholic
liquors, Catholic boxes for
the poor…Catholic
jokes…Catholic prayer
books…Catholic Bibles…
Catholic policemen…
Catholic firemen…
Catholic mailmen and
mailwomen…Catholic
funeral parlors…Catholic
plays…Catholic films…
CATHOLIC! CATHOLIC!!
CATHOLIC!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAA
MMMMMMMMMMMMM
MMMMMMMMMMMMM
MMMMMMMMMMMMM
MMM
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEE
NNNNNNNNNNNNNNN
NNNNN!!!!!!!!
 The
Machinations
of a
Vile Stupidity
N
ovember, 1967.
On the
Cambodian-
Laotian borders. As
much as it was the
United States Army’s
intention to bomb to
smithereens and
defoliate the leaves away
of the Vietnamese
countryside with the
excuse of clearing large
segments of land so that
the country could be rid
of those “commie gook
bastards” from the north
of Vietnam, too much of
the beauty of what was
once Indo-China
remained to remind one
that this potential
breadbasket of the world
or offshore goldmine of
petroleum deposits—
which of the two suited
one’s fancy?—was in fact
a luscious green paradise
of richly luxurious
mountains, valleys,
coastlines, rivers, forests
and hamlets.
In the mosquito-infested
Central Highlands,
adjacent to Cambodia
and Laos, a mountain
range of green splendor
greeted the sightseer in
the air and on the
ground. The views were
often breathtakingly
seductive, and the
serenity of the area made
for a pleasant break from
army bases, fire bases,
forts, base camps,
terminals and
compounds. As one
trekked through the
“boonies” there was the
overpowering feeling that
vacation time had come
round once again. The
pleasantries of the
beautiful woodlands
instilled in one a distinct
presentiment of
peacefulness. Butterflies
—an enormous range of
colors characterizing
their diverse species—
crowded pathways
hacked away by
machete-bearing
pointmen. Birds chirped
away in treetops and
reminded one of
agreeable moments had
in one’s youth during
springtime strolls through
shaded timberlands with
the loved one—hand in
hand. There was that
matchless sound of
bacon and eggs—traded,
if not robbed, from local
Montagnard villagers—
crackling on a frying pan
over an early-morning
fire, the aroma scenting
its way through trees and
bushes into two-man
hootches where rested
soldiers recharged by a
ten-hour sleep on an
army-issue gray air
mattress turned over to
reach for the first butt of
the day and stalled, in a
lazy, contented way, the
beginning of a day’s
march up the side of a
comely mountain.
Canteens were filled with
fresh, diseased-free
water from tributaries
which had directed the
cool refreshment for
miles over rocks and
through vegetation
effecting Nature’s own
purifying process and
ridding one of the need
to plunk iodine tablets
into canteens and then,
to kill the taste, slide in
cherry-flavored KOOL-AID
granules, pre-sweetened,
P-L-E-A-S-E!!! from the
funneled edges of those
small, pre-packed
envelopes. Canteen cups
were used to boil hot
water for shaving, and
steel-potted helmets
served as washbasins
into which soapy razor
blades were dunked to
make ready the next
scrape to the chin.
C-ration cans were
heated over small blue
pellet heating tabs—yells
going up in quest of an
extra can of peaches, or
“Who likes ham and lima
beans? (no one), I’ll trade
you for a spiced beef.”
When breakfast was
completed, packs—some
weighing eighty pounds
with mortar rounds, M-60
ammo belts, and prick-9
radio batteries busting a
man’s back—were
hoisted to fit a very neat
position, rifles were
grabbed, helmets were
arranged at their most
comfortable tilt, and
pistol belts with loaded
canteens and ammo
pouches were clicked into
place. The “humping”
was begun.
One looked up to the
verdant mountain and
was discouraged by its
imposing height. The
moans and groans once
expelled, the men went
about their hiking first
considering it to be a
chore, then looking to
what good could come
from it. A bamboo pit
viper or two wiggled and
glided on the roots of a
huge tree. Every month
or so, a python to catch
and wrestle with in
patches of grass—
machete-bearing soldiers
on guard to prevent
strangulations. Wild
water buffalo were
avoided altogether, when
not shot, because they
were too vicious and
unpredictable in their
behavior. No one
appreciated the trouble
leeches brought, and in
certain areas, especially
where the soil was
unusually rich and moist
and ensconced from
adequate air circulation
by ravines, heavy
underbrush or land
depressions, the leeches
seemed to cultivate
exceedingly well
requiring us to douse our
boots with mosquito
repellent to keep them
from crawling up our legs
into our crotches.
It was gratifying to walk
into a friendly village
without going in to
destroy it and find
villagers hard at work
building homes or
preparing meals for their
families. And if the
inhabitants were not
frightened by our
presence—all the better.
G. I.’s teased and
playacted with the tribe.
Gifts might be
exchanged. C-rations
might be tossed to
scrounging kids begging
for food. A charred-
wood smell was diffused
throughout the village.
Bare-breasted women,
nipples chunky and firm,
cradled children in their
arms possessing them
maternally and offering
protection to them from
the unstableness of an
army which offered them
food by day but at night
might bomb them to bits
and pieces. There was
no promise of peace and
quiet for these people
and their country set in
political turmoil for
decades. The village now
became a memory to the
soldier’s past.
The company pushed on
farther to a night position
where foxholes might be
dug and artillery
defensive concentrations
were certain to kindle
small brush fires and
intimidate neighboring
villagers. The security of
the night perimeter was
much like the fetal
posture. The unit drew
itself into itself and felt
safe when it covered its
head and body with the
security blanket of a
circular encampment,
with guards watching
over it through the night,
with radio contact for any
emergency, with men
well-armed and fortified
with a filling dinner, with
an air force at their beck
and call, with helicopter
gunships to whip in and
out to sting an attacking
enemy.
The moon lit the night.
Radios blared, portable
record players played
popular music. Chats
abounded within the
boundary of the secured
area. Chinese
communist disc-jockeys
beamed romantic soul
music, but G. I.’s ignored
their political messages
happy to hear familiar
tunes from back home.
Chilled winds blew in the
later part of the day and
early part of the evening,
and it was cozy to squat
into one’s hootch
constructed of two rain
ponchos and there
position oneself in the
center of the blown-up air
mattress—its rubber
aroma floating up to be
whiffed at throughout the
night. The body was
tired, aching. Yet, it was
firm, resilient from the
suffering it was being put
through. It did not take
long to fall asleep. One
might go to catch Z’s
earlier than usual hoping
that the hootchmate one
was assigned to would
not enter during an
ecstatic masturbation
taken under a poncho
liner.
There were other
comforts. A good book; a
re-read of the letters
from home; the latest
issue of Playboy to
escape from reality; a
good cigar; the
knowledge that the M-16
had been cleaned
earlier that day; and, dry,
clean socks.
At night, when the noise
of one hundred and
twenty men abated, one
set off to sleep listening
to the sounds of the
jungle: its animals, its
trees swishing in the
wind, its own powerful
presence occasionally
disturbed by the clock-
clocking of a Huey or the
explosion of an
harassment and
interdiction artillery
round sounding off in the
distance with a
tremendous pounding to
the ground. Nature, in its
beauty and splendor, was
too strong even for the
United States Army
which, while despoiling
and B-52-bombing It,
could not take away the
time which would come
to replenish It in all Its
green brilliance and
vitality.
Always a strict creature,
Nature was even severer
in Vietnam. For all the
punishment it had
inflicted upon it, it
parcelled out its own.
Nature knew it would
survive, yet it yielded
high malarial
temperatures. It slapped
down villagers and
soldiers with tuberculosis,
cholera and typhus. Its
billowy, dark clouds—
bulging their way through
the skies—dropped
oceans of rain on roads
muddying them, on
bodies diseasing them,
on fighter bombers
grounding them. When
the clouds full of rain
scattered at the end of
their season, the hot sun
came to parch throats
and cake roads to a
powdery dust which blew
in the faces of men and
clogged the oil-smooth-
running machinery of the
world’s most powerful
army.
The Sun to the east, the
Sun to the west. It was
magnificent in the
morning warming the
body after a chilled sleep.
At dusk, it set behind
gorgeous mountains, its
flare lighting up the skies
in posh hues of red,
orange, blue white and
purple. Cirrus,
cirrostratus, cirrocumulus
and altostratus clouds
beamed dazzling colors
bounced off them by that
sinking luminous celestial
body around which the
Earth and other planets
revolve, from which they
receive heat and light,
which has a mean
distance from Earth of
93,000,000 miles, a
linear diameter of
864,000 miles, a mass
332,000 times grander
than Earth, and a mean
density about one-fourth
that of Earth.
I fantasized a champagne
breakfast at sunrise in St.
Augustine on Florida’s
east coast, and a seafood
platter feast at sunset in
Cedar Key on Florida’s
west coast. The Vietnam
experience would not
always be with us, but
the Sun would be. And
what a gracious, friendly
Sun! The company is
drenched with gallons of
monsoon rain when then,
and only then, the Sun
pops out to steam heat
away soaking helmet
camouflage covers,
waterlogged fatigues,
and sloshing wet boots—
those boots Nancy
Sinatra keeps reminding
us, as if we did not know,
were made for none
other than walking!
The chill leaves the body
when the heat rays of the
Sun pierce their way
through army-issued
green santeen duds. The
body becomes dry again.
Sweat begins to seep
through the fine pores
and small openings of the
body’s protective
garments. The Colt Rifle
Company’s famous—but
overrated—M-16 is
speckled with reddish
brown rust particles
which will be removed
easily with tiny cloth
patches sopped with
cleaning oil, one each, for
external use only.
The humping assumes a
new, refreshed mood.
Stomachs are beginning
to growl from the extra
duty imposed on the
digestive system to keep
the body pushing on
through draughty rains
and hot Sun. One must
now seek shade from the
midday Sun under whose
torrid warmth lunch will
be taken. The rucksack
is tossed to the base of a
tree, the helmet plunked
down on the ground, the
rifle put to the side close
at hand, the pistol belt is
unlatched, the canteen
reached for with both
hands in a caressing
gesture and swigs are
had from the olive drab
plastic container which
holds that precious liquid
refreshment more
pretentious than a good
bottle of Chateauneuf-
du-Pape.
A pleasant intermission
comes to us. Within the
inventory of the Universe
there is a large stream
one-hundred meters from
our lunch break position,
and our company
commander has “tender-
heartedly” given us
permission to bathe and
wash clothes in the
shadiness of the spread
of a richly-vegetated
idyllic forest scene. The
winsomeness of the area
is incomparable. Trees
and colourful shrubs
abound. The current
flows coolly and its
sparkling, crystal-clear
waters lower the body
temperature and revive
the mind to make it as
translucent and alive as
the colorless, glass-like
surface of the charging
brook. The spirit of the
men becomes brisk.
There is horseplay. There
is fun. The only grim
reminder of the war is
the five naked guards
who have been placed on
duty to protect the
splashing, frolicking
infantrymen. Soap suds
begin to dull the upper
boundary of the stream
as men scrub at socks
and fatigue shirts and
their very own bodies.
More than a hundred
nudes. There is little
modesty, shame. The
release from the
oppressing load of the
rucksack has encouraged
all of us to forget our
slavery and enjoy, as
much as we can, this
little grab at joy. There is
no bitching when the call
to regroup is made. The
men want to savor this
encounter with Nature for
at least the rest of the
day, and rather than fight
or pick at their plight,
they permit their
disciplined bodies and
minds to respond
automatically—
involuntarily—to the
command of that army
they disrespect and
despise. The rucksack,
harnessed to strong
backs for the umpteenth
time, feels lighter than
was once imagined in the
frigid waters of the river.
The men head out, in
single file, in silent
resolve. Whatever their
thoughts are, they are
private, intense. The
men intertwine with
Nature. They have taken a better order of Life, and
comfort from Nature’s they have sought,
powerful ability to stand through the simplicity of
and endure. They look Nature, to seek peace
up to the blue and know and good will among all
that those fluffy white men on Earth without
cottony nebulas will turn recrimination and
blackish gray by late penalty.
afternoon and pour down
huge droplets of water

I
condensed from vapor in nto this serene milieu
the boundless is plopped the
atmosphere which battalion’s number one
infiltrates the Vietnamese beer delivery man who is
countryside, the hearts making his weekly rounds
and minds of all men and around the battalion’s
women and even the area of operations. The
United States Army. They company knows the
look to the ground and clock-clocking helicopter
sense the firmness of the is the command and
Earth—its hardened control Huey of Light Bird
exterior always waiting to Colonel, on the Full Bird
take without recoil or Promotion List, Husky
echo the hammering of because it is clean,
that steel-plated-in-the- spirals from a three-
sole jungle boot, two thousand-foot height in
each, green-canvassed at order to avoid small arms
their sides. Soldiers look fire, and it has been
to the right, to the left. some time since our
There are only green unit’s shining bright, spit-
trees and lush jungle shined-booted, with-
bushes to catch the eye. fatigues-starched
The company has commander has been out
reached a level of to the twigs for a visit.
Platonic The touching Shelleyan
Transcendentalism. They slumber of the “grunts”
have superseded, for a has been dissipated into
short time, the yoke of the atmosphere—perhaps
their own inhibiting forever—by this hideous
prejudices and the intrusion.
preconceived judgements The company guesses at
of others, and in unity, what its battalion’s chief
the fellowship of infantry buffoon has up his olive
fight specialists have drab sleeves for tricks
intuited the truth about and treats this fine
their fellow man and sweltering day, and there
have felt, while not is immeasurable glee
intellectualising it, the immediately when, to
value of virtuous everyone’s delight, as
conduct. Chained to Husky disembarks from
their rocks as his landed Huey and
Prometheus, the “grunts” charges forward to greet
have begun to stop his company commander
warring with their and infantry puppets, he
oppressors. They have trips over a tree stump,
taken the steps to scuffs his mirrored boots,
understand and pity and is caught from a fall
them. They have found to the ground—not
hope in the possibility of smooth and boarded as is
his comfy Tactical
Operations Center—by
his ass-kissing,
permanently-fixed-to-his-
left-side battalion
executive officer. Husky
is amazed with himself
and vents his anger at
once at his Bravo
Company commanding
officer explaining to him
that his men should have
cleared away the Landing
Zone more carefully—
what, captain, would
have happened if a
Combat Assault was to
have been executed on
that L. Z. and an artillery
forward observer had
seriously injured himself
on that tree stump
incapacitating his ability
to bring smoke and pee
on an attacking enemy?
To wit, the company
commander: “I am sorry,
sir, for that indiscretion. I
can assure you, sir, there
will be no reoccurrence of
it in the future.”
“Very well, captain.
Report!”
Husky has slipped back
to the very reason he
came to the field. The
company commander
snaps to, readies himself
to present his report, and
whips a flashy salute on
Husky. The comedy
continues.
“Captain, I have
repeatedly told you, and
every other god-damned
company commander in
this outfit, that I do not
want to be made
conspicuous in the field
by having officers and
enlisted men salute me.
I don’t want to be a
target for Charlie any
more than I have to be.
Do you understand, you
god-damned little idiot?”
“Yes, sir! That
indiscretion will never
reoccur in the future.”
There are giggles and
gawky looks throughout
the company area.
Everyone knows the
Vietcong and the
Northvietnamese Army
have been monitoring
Husky’s inept operations
for months and have
conspired to let Husky
live until he is promoted
to Army Chief of Staff—
who needs friends with
enemies like this.
“Proceed with your
report, captain.”
“Sir, the enemy situation
is complicated and
peculiar. We have out-
maneuvered and
outflanked the
aggressors with your
stylised…”
“Captain, I don’t want to
hear your highfalutin
excuses for not giving me
bodies,” Husky shrills
aloud in the woods for all
within a thousand meters
to hear.
“Sir, the indiscretion will
never occur in the
future.”
“Captain, are you some
kind of a god-damned
idiot? Stop that
indiscretion shit now!”
“Sir, the indis…Yeeees,
SSSSSSiiiiiirrrrrr!”
“Captain, to date your
unit is deficient. You
have the highest foot-
wound (“The Million-
Dollar Wound”) casualty
rate in the whole god-
damned army, you
haven’t had a body for
me in four weeks, and
you are slow getting to
your positions. What do
you have to say for
yourself?”
“Sir…”
“…I’ll tell you what you
have to say for yourself,
captain. You have to say
that you are a complete
idiot. You have to say
you are not doing your
job. You have to say that
your next efficiency
report is going to look
mighty shitty if you don’t
shape up soon!”
“Sir…”
“Do not sir me. I want
action, I want bodies !
Go to it, my man.”
“Yes, sir!”
“I want to talk with your
men.”
The company
commander kowtows and
pays homage and droops
his body and bends
hither and tither to lead
the way for Husky to his
men who are assembled
in small groups in the
distance talking about
their recent spiritualistic
reunion with Nature.
Husky comes upon the
men—both arms filled
with cold beer cans.
“Got something for you
“gook” killers! Feast your
eyes on these cold cans
of suds, boys. I’m the
only battalion
commander in Vietnam
willing to break
regulations for his men
and bring them ice-cold
suds to the field.”
Husky’s favorable opinion
of himself falls on deaf
ears. The men want the
suds.
“What do you think about
that, private?”
Husky has happed upon
California Dreamer, the
unit’s philosopher of
Nature.
“Sir, have you ever
thought about Nature
and what a satisfying
experience it is to walk
among the trees and
mountains and streams?”
Husky’s eyes bulge with
astonishment. He has
been taken unawares.
“I-I, yes I have, son.”
Husky thinks he is
dealing with a nut case.
“Were you inspired,
colonel?”
“I guess I was, I…son, we
are here to fight a war. I
don’t see what Nature
has to do with that.”
“I do, sir.”
“You do?”
“Sir…”
“…son…Major, take this
man to my C&C ship and
wait for me there.”
Husky does not want to
enter into a philosophical
debate, nor does he wish
to have his men’s minds
poisoned with stuff he
knows might turn out to
be commie or anti-army.
“Men, I wish to make a
point or two very clear to
you.”
Husky is gearing up for
an army Sermon on the
Mount, but his mind is
abruptly torn between
risking the use of
California Dreamer as an
example of what not to
think in Vietnam—
thereby alienating his
men—or proceeding to
follow through on his hip-
shooting hunch that he
can make interesting hay
out of the situation and
make an example of the
philosopher of Nature
who obviously challenged
his ideas, who obviously
challenged his authority.
Naturally, Husky shot
from the hip—his way of
doing everything. The
moral homily continued.
“The United States Army
is the toughest, best-
equipped army in the
world. It is not a candy-
assed outfit, and it is not
a pack of Boy Scouts on
its way to an overnight
cookout.”
He points to the hills of
Cambodia and Laos.
“In those hills are
commies. God-damned
little fucking slanty-eyed
bastard commies. And
they are out to kill your
fucking asses, boys.
They are out to subjugate
and subterfuge the
American system of
democracy. They are out
to take your beer from
you.”
Husky is rolling along.
The class clown has
become the class
valedictorian.
“They are out to, god-
damn those bastards,
seduce and abuse your
mothers, wives and
girlfriends. The commies
are smart little fuckers.
Don’t underestimate
them. They are willing to
walk the long mile to get
their way, and they will
take all the time they
need to do it. They are
waiting in those hills.
They are waiting for you
to drop your guard, to
leave yourself open for
that one-two, under-the-
belt punch. They want to
box you into a corner.
Men, Husky is here to
prove to them otherwise.
And the way we will show
those gook bastards that
we will not stand for their
commie shit is the way
your old man Husky is
going to show you how to
fight this war. But, men, I
can’t do it without you. I
can’t do it when you let
your guard down. If you
spend your day looking
at trees and pretty
flowers and not looking
for Charlie, you are doing
yourself a disservice, you
are doing your nation a
disservice, you are doing
Husky a disservice. For
God’s sake, boys, watch
out for those commie
bastards. Don’t let them
catch you with your pants
down. Be on your toes.
Keep your rifles clean,
walk five meters apart,
search the areas you are
passing through, take
your malaria pills, and for
God’s sake, boys, stop
shooting yourselves in
the god-damned feet! I
have an incentive for
you. For every gook or
AK-47 a Bravo Company
grunt brings me, there
are two quart bottles of
Seagrams-7 waiting back
in Bravo Charlie. Bring
me bodies. Husky wants
bodies, men. I need a
high body count. I want
to keep those god-
damned commies from
infiltrating into our
country—the home of the
free, the home of the
brave. Go get ‘em,
boys!!!”
Husky’s moral discourse
made little impression on
the men. There were
mumblings in the crowd
mostly over the whisky
bribe.
“Let me hear it, gook
killers!”
The “grunts’” minds
reminisced to happier (?)
days at Fort Benning, “Give me ‘KILLS,’ gook
Georgia and their killers!!!”
instructors’ commands to
scream out a vociferous “Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill,
chain of crescendoing kill, kill, kill, kill.”
“KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL,
KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL, They came in increased
KILL, KILL!” Their pitch and quality. Not
response to Husky’s Fort Benning perfect, but
request was made with loud enough to satisfy
fizzling “kills,” and Husky Husky.
had to encourage them
with his own sparked, Husky turned, muttered
enthusiastic “kill.” something to his
executive officer who had
“KKKKKKKKKKKKKKIIIIIIIIIII returned to hear the
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII remonstrance, and then
IIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL they both walked back to
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL Husky’s C&C ship where
LLLLLLLLLL!!!” he the Spreader of the Word
screeched out suddenly met California Dreamer
at the top of his lungs and told him he was
waking up the most being sent to the
sullen grunt from his division’s psychiatric unit
cosmic reveries. for observation.

The Third Tyranny of

a Majority
The Sustenance
of White
Ascendancy in
the
 Sunshine State
In Pleiku—in the early
part of 1968—Staff-
sergeant Jimmy Gibbs,
the Fourth Division’s
Perpetrator of Logistical
Evil Deeds and Supply
Naughties, par
excellence, sat with his
feet on his desk, a bottle
of bourbon close at hand,
and told me, frankly, I
was a “P.I.” (Poppa India;
Political Influence), a cog
in the Army’s Wheel. I
was one who would be
taken care of by being
ignored and placed in
positions where I could
not have the chance to
skip to promotion slots
which might aid my Army
career which, according
to Sergeant Gibbs, I
probably did not give a
shit about anyway
because I would not have
written—if I did care—to
the President of the
United States, that home-
boy commander-in-chief
of the United States
Army, one Lyndon B.
Johnson, simply asking
him why Jacqueline
Kennedy was vacationing
in Angor Watt, Cambodia
while my men and I were
digging foxholes on the
country’s border—later
sneaking in at night; and,
wondering why the
Secretary of Defence,
Robert McNamara, would
relinquish his defense
post mid-stream a war
(“Mr. President, may I do
the same?).
“So…sit back and relax,
lieutenant, you’ve been
taken out of the field
probably for the rest of
your tour, you’re now a
base camp warrior, you
can make a lot of extra
money here helping me
in my supply business,
and there is plenty of
booze and shrimp and
fresh eggs and steak and
sack time for you in our
specially-constructed
clubhouse where we
have a mid-afternoon
cocktail party every day
and today you will be the
guest of honor and will
be welcomed into our
unit, you, the new Fourth
Division Replacement
Detachment’s Property
Book Officer, and me,
your supply sergeant, we
will have a great time
together—have another
drink!—I think I’m going
to like you even though
you are an officer and a
goddamn nigger-loving
and Jew-loving Yankee
from New York at that!
Ha! Ha!! Ha!!!”
Gibbs was southern
Georgia cracker rebel and
a foxy character whose
mind could compute
numbers with the whiz-
bang efficiency of a
pocket calculator. Had
this Georgian farm boy
been born in Yankee
territory, he might have
passed through
university unto graduate
school on to a successful
Wall Street career in the
business world—his mind
was indeed incredibly
sharp and his knack for
mathematics was
astonishing. This ability
was coupled with a
unique penchant for
common sense which
made Sergeant Gibbs
wiser than his thirty-five not stoop to Husky’s
years. depraved state and use
his men or innocent
Like many other “lifers” civilians as cannon
in the Army, Gibbs had a fodder to further his
serious drinking problem; political ambitions. Gibbs
he started each morning preferred to keep a low
with the gulping down of profile, and he cared less
the LISTERINE whether the Army
mouthwash he had just wanted to promote him
gargled and swished or not. In fact, he did not
around his tongue, gums want to be advanced in
and teeth. It was Gibbs’s rank because he would
sunrise cocktail, and the have to have all his
jolt of LISTERINE put uniforms re-sewn with
Gibbs on the oblique path new rank insignia and
to that extra $2000 a such an inconvenience
month (“chicken feed”) would cause him time
he was swindling in the and money. The Army’s
replacement detachment. Gibbs had gravitated to
E-6, staff sergeant level,
Gibbs thought he was so supply sergeant, and it
deserving of his extra was there he wanted to
$2000 that had he made cushion himself for the
a penny less of it, he rest of his career which
would have retired from was concerned principally
the “goddamn fucking with fingering as much as
United States Army” and he could in twenty short
gone back to hauling Army years.
moonshine for his brother
who, boy, was making a He maneuvered furtively.
pretty buck in them thar His modus operandi was
hills—you bet! to befriend each and
every supply sergeant in
Gibbs’s philosophy was the United States Army—
simple: Everyone is all over the world.
stealing—so will I. No Supply sergeants
doubt about it; no pangs comprised a fraternity of
of conscience. With that crooks, and when they
rationale, Gibbs offered met in mess halls for
himself a free pass to coffee and doughnuts
cheat, embezzle and with friendly mess
cook property books so sergeants—heavyset
that they looked clean members of another
and spiffy at inspection supply guild of E-6 frauds
time after his pilferages. —the occasion was
Gibbs lived in a little characterized by
world of graft and wheelings and dealings
corruption, and he that would have made
insisted that he get his any cell of organized
piece of the Vietnam pie criminals gloat with
before the politicians delight causing their
gobbled it all up. members to scratch their
itchy palms. The
While one would rate brotherliness of supply
Gibbs low on any scale sergeants was not fixed
which gauged conformity in the bosom of the Army.
to those ideals of right The Navy, Air Force and
human conduct, he did Marines were all
connected affectionately.
These loving souls, proud
and shameless, claimed
that they kept their
respective services
functioning by using to
their best advantage
their uncanny abilities to
see through to the heart
of any supply matter
which ordinarily was
confused by inordinate
paperwork that delayed
delivery of military goods
to those in need of them.
Supply sergeants were
specialists who ventured
beyond the jumble and
fastidiousness of complex
service requirements and
regulations in order to
make things happen for
the Army, Navy, Air
Force, Marines,
themselves and, every so
often, for the grunt in the
field who was given what
was left over once
business deals were
sealed and delivered.
Gibbs was an
acknowledged con artist
and respected by other
supply sergeants who
often went to him for his
daft advice for juggling
books and receipts. The
fraternity worked well by
exchanging favors or
surplus or stolen
commodities—one for
another. A neo-
renaissance of the
bartering system.
Merchandise was often
sold, on demand, to
whomever—friendlies or
enemies—wanted it. A
case of whisky was
always good for lumber
from the Air Force. Boxes
of steak got cement from
the Engineer Corps for
Husky’s pool. Sundry
packs allocated for use
by field personnel were
exchanged for the
services of French-
Vietnamese prostitutes
from Saigon who were
transported north to
division headquarters in
Red Cross uniforms. The
network was well-
connected and proficient.
There were oodles of
money to make, and
service goodies were in
demand all over the
country.
With $150 billion hyped
into the Vietnam effort to
buffer the world
recession of the early
1960s, the supply
sergeants’ fraternity was
in a constant state of
glee—the financial
opportunities often
boggling the mind.
Business was so good,
supply sergeants often
paid their way to get re-
ups for additional duty in
the Vietnam graft palace.
They performed their
services with aplomb and
very often with a sense of
loyalty akin to a Mafia
chieftain’s fidelity to his
family.
If the Fourth Division’s
commanding general
wanted sheets for his
double bed, he got them.
If “B” Battery’s supply
sergeant was short a jeep
or two when inspection
rolled around, he got
them. If a colonel was
short grated rind and
cognac for his crepe
suzettes party, he got
them. The more difficult
the challenge, the faster
it seemed the goodies
appeared. Supply
sergeants had a
reputation to keep and
pulling hard-to-come-by
merchandise out of their
olive drab provisions’
hats, afforded them fame
throughout the supply
room world of the
worldwide corrupt United
States Army.
Being the Fourth
Division’s Replacement
Detachment Property
Book officer, the “P.B.O.,”
did not mean I had any
rights to run my unit as I
was trained to do so in
three short hours during
a “block” of supply
instruction at Fort Sill,
Oklahoma. It was
understood that
lieutenants were stupid
and while we were
responsible for every
item on the property
books when we signed
for them and “owned”
them until transfer was
made to the next P.B.O.,
there was no sense in
offering concern when
Sergeant Gibbs traded a
truck or two for a
howitzer his friend
needed after he lost his
own when it fell from a
Chinook helicopter on its
way to a new fire base.
My job was a formality. I
sat at my desk all day
reading or practicing my
typing, and to every
piece of paper, carbon-
copied five times, that
passed over my desk, I
scribbled my name
without even looking at
what I was signing. It
was hopeless to attempt
to know what was going
on, and if I did, I would
have to court-martial
Sergeant Gibbs as a
simple matter of
principle. And I did not
want to do that.
Gibbs and I had become
friends. I kept comparing
him to Husky—Gibbs a
resounding lesser of two
evils. As close as any
officer and non-
commissioned officer
dared to get, we got. We
drank whisky together,
we talked long hours
about Georgia and New
York and Vietnam. Gibbs
filled me with homespun
advice about the Army
and life and the twelve-
year jump on life he had
on me, offered many
intelligent tips about
economics and business
dealings for myself and
my family if ever I had
one. As much as Gibbs
was a crook, he was a
nice one. I had to admire
his determination and
verve. If he was going to
be a crook, he was going
to be the best crook in
the United States Army!
If it was everyone’s
business to steal, he
would do it better. Gibbs
was an artist. He did
what he did because he
loved its labor for its own
sake.
“Which brings me,
lieutenant, to a very
important point I want to
make with you. You
managed to con your
way out of the field by
writing a letter to the
President of the United
States.”
“Hold it, Gibbs. It wasn’t
my intention to “con” my
way out of the field, and
it wasn’t my idea to
suggest to Jackie
Kennedy that she visit
Cambodia during the
Vietnam conflict.”
“It’s the obvious question
to ask you, lieutenant.”
“It’s none of your
business what I write to
Johnson about. Why are
you so concerned about
my motives? Are you a
snitcher?”
“I’m not,” scoffed Gibbs.

“I’ll never know.”
“You can trust me,
lieutenant.”
“Gibbs, you’re a damned
lifer no matter what you
say,” I joshed back at
him.
“Relax, lieutenant. I want
to put some cards on the
table for you and help
you out. That’s all. And I
need your help. I’m here
—I’m in the Army—to
make money. There is a
great deal of it sloshing
around loosely, and I’m
up to $2000 already
above each monthly
take-home check I get. I
can do more, and I
expect to. But I need
someone to help me,
someone intelligent
enough to handle the
paperwork in this unit
and keep on top of the
regulations which are
always coming from
Washington to screw up
what would otherwise be
a smooth-running
operation….”
“No. I’m not interested.
I’m not going to join in on
your crap game,
sergeant.”
“Let me finish,
lieutenant.”
“No. It smells. As long
as there are people dying
in this shit, I am not
going to contribute to its
fucking functioning.”
“Lieutenant, what right
have you to be a
moralist?”
“I enjoy being a novelty,
Gibbs! But don’t put
words in my mouth. I am
not a moralist. I am an
intelligentist! What I see
is stupidity—not morality.
I have no right to be a
moralist and I don’t want
to be one. I enjoy being
an intelligentist! I enjoy
being different! If it’s so
easy to steal, the money
ought to be spread to
other causes…like
feeding hungry people or
getting them to stop
producing like rabbits or
spending it on…”
“…like spending it on
liberal shit that gets us
into these messes?”
“Gibbs, look, I don’t know
who or what causes
these so-called “messes.”
And I am not interested.
The liberals and the
conservatives,
Democrats and
Republicans are capable
of doing everything but
what is intelligent. I’m
just a pawn in an
international rackets
game.”
“Do you know why we
are in Vietnam?”
“No, I don’t, Gibbs. It has
to be for the wrong
reasons, I presume.”
“Oil.”
“Oil?”
“Oil in the South China
Sea.”
“Not food? I thought
Vietnam was the
Breadbasket of the
World?”
“I thought lieutenants
had at least one ounce of
common sense in them.
There are supposed to be
enormous reserves of oil
in the South China Sea.
We need that oil to keep
prices down and reserves
high.”
“Gibbs, what the fuck do
I care about oil. No
matter what it is for, oil
or food, it still falls under
the heading of economic
exploitation, and that—if
you didn’t know it—is
very, very stupid!”
“Lieutenant, why don’t
you take your piece of it
and keep your big, fat
mouth shut?—with all
due respect, sir! I mean,
who do you think you
are, anyway?”
“Because, Gibbs, I am
not an ass. I don’t
believe that because
everyone else is doing it I
should, too!”
“But don’t you think you
owe it to your family? To
afford them security?”
“Yes. But I don’t have to
do it by stealing.”
“Look, lieutenant, the
world is in deep
economic trouble. Our
being in Vietnam proves
that. We’re heading for
an international
economic crisis and you
owe it to yourself to get
into a position where you
won’t be found with your
pants down when the
crunch comes.”
“Gibbs, how do you know
about world economic
crises? Are you a stock
broker, too?”
“I have friends on Wall
Street. I read up on the
economy when I can.”
“You don’t sound like an
expert. Have your
contacts concluded
disaster?”
“No. But they cannot
afford to. It would be bad
for business.”
“You mean they lie like
the Army does?”
“Why not?”
“It figures.”
“Lieutenant, there is a
fleet of forty ships tied up
between Camh Ranh Bay
and the United States
doing nothing but sitting
and earning money
because Uncle Sam
requisitioned its services
to keep it from going
bankrupt. The whole of
Vietnam is an investment
in the United States of
America and its allies. It
is a $150 billion boost to
a declining world
economy.”
“Lieutenant, I am offering
you a chance to make
good money. Take it or
leave it. Take $25,000 or
$30,000 extra for a
year’s work in Southeast
Asia. I’m not going to
beg you.”
“Gibbs, what are you up
to here? I’m terribly
curious.”
“My game is working the
economy in Pleiku with
other supply sergeants. I
have the laundry and taxi
concessions in town, and
the others share the
booze joints,
whorehouses, surplus
stores, fuel stops, and
other profitable ventures
we have invested in. I
own twenty five three-
wheeled LAMBRETTA taxi
scooters which serve not
only downtown Pleiku,
but the surrounding cities
within a fifty-mile radius.
My laundries keep
fatigues cleaned and “…a rifle, a handgrenade,
starched. Labor is cheap, a .45 pistol, a mortar
as you might have tube…”
imagined, the profits are
good, as you might have “…a job in the mess hall,
imagined, and I pay the a job filling sandbags,
Vietcong off to keep their medical attention.”
mitts off my businesses.”
“That’s very nice, Gibbs.
“You pay the V. C. off?” It really is. I’m touched.
But couldn’t it have been
“I pay them for done under another
protection just like pretext? I mean one
shopkeepers pay the which doesn’t wreak so
cops off in your nigger disgustingly of greed?”
Harlem slums,
lieutenant!” “Greed is the human
condition, lieutenant.”
“You are conspiring with
the Vietcong when you “So accept it.”
know there are men out
in the boonies dying?” “No. Believe it or not, I
am not greedy. An extra
“Lieutenant, I don’t wish $40,000 or $50,000 from
to see men dying in the this tour will satisfy me a
boonies. If I knew my lot. I know how far I can
businesses were causing push myself without
deaths, I would get out of getting into trouble.
this. But I think I am Some of my friends don’t,
doing more to keep men unfortunately, and they
from dying than I am are going to spoil a good
causing them to die. I’m thing for a lot of people if
not the only one making they don’t be careful.”
money. The Vietnamese
never had it so good. “You mean your fat friend
They have food, with the big gold watch in
equipment and advice. the P. X.?”
Things they never had “Yes. That sergeant-major
before. They are kept is being watched
busy, and they are carefully. He’s trying to
learning the first DEROS with more than
principles of capitalism— $500,000, but I don’t
crude principles, granted, think he will make it. And
but they have to start his C. O., too. That
somewhere and captain in charge of the
anywhere is better than P. X.”
communism.”
“Who is going to arrest
“Gibbs, I don’t believe them? J. Edgar Hoover?”
they want it.”
“No. You aren’t going to
“Lieutenant, they don’t steal a million without a
know what they want. All lot of people who want to
they know is their steal a million knowing
mouths are being fed about it. There is honor
more than ever before, among thieves—or
and a pair of boots, a should I say pride and
fatigue cap, a canteen…” jealousy!—which keeps
checks on those of us
who are on the opposite
side of your intelligent-
stupid fence, lieutenant.”
“Well, Gibbs, perhaps
that is what it all boils
down to anyway. The
side of the fence one is
on. You are trying to pull
me to your side of the
fence, sergeant. I’ve
never been there, and
you might be right that
there is no risk involved
and that I could get home
free with an extra
$25,000 or $30,000. But
it is not what I think I
should do for a number of
stupid and cultural
reasons which I suppose
you will never be able to
understand. I’m not
going to try to change
your ways of trying to
earn money. And you will
not continue bugging me
with your thoughts about
what is intelligent for me,
either. Let us respect
one and other in at least
this regard. I think you
are stupid as much as
you think I am stupid!
It’s a Mexican stand-off,
Sergeant Gibbs!”
“I’m sorry you don’t trust
me, lieutenant. $30,000
is a lot of money.”
“So is the $4,000 I will
take home legally with a
peaceful mind.”
“It’s not just the money,
lieutenant. It’s your
pride.”
“My pride! No, not my
pride. My peace of mind!
That’s more important to
me than money!”
“Lieutenant, have
another drink. I will
accept your dumb
decision not to take my
offer.”
“Gibbs, don’t be so
arrogant. You have no
choice. Don’t bug me
about it again.
Understand? I just want
to get out of Vietnam in
one piece—just like
everyone else in the
Fourth Division who isn’t
stealing money.”
“Now that you are in
base camp, lieutenant,
the chances for that have
been increased for you
1,000%. Thanks to
Jacqueline Kennedy!”
“Ha, ha, Gibbs. I never
thought they would have
taken me out of the
field.”
“Cheers to Jacqueline
Kennedy. Lieutenant, you
should go and marry
her!”
“Do you think I could rob
enough money from the
Fourth Division’s
Replacement Division to
marry Jackie Kennedy?”
“I could get you started,
lieutenant! It won’t be
long before you will be
home again.”
“That is comforting in
one sense, sergeant. But
when I say I want to get
out of Vietnam I also
mean I want to get out of
the uniform of the United
States Army. I’ve never
before been associated
with such a corrupt,
bankrupt, stupid
organization. It makes
me sick to my stomach.”
I got up to go to the door.
“One more thing,
lieutenant,” Gibbs fired
rapidly.
“There will be an
offensive rolling around
shortly. Watch out. My V.
C. intelligence says there
will be coordinated
attacks throughout our
area of operations. A lot
of higher-ups are putting
in for R&Rs so they are
out of country when the
assaults take place. May
I get you an extra R&R?”
“What do you mean,
sergeant?”
“I mean that if you want
to be out of Vietnam on
vacation when the shit
hits the fan, I will get you
an R&R—my
compliments!”
“There will be attacks
and higher knows about
it?”
“They are planning it
now with the enemy,
lieutenant!”
“You are full of shit,
sergeant.”
“I am not full of shit,
lieutenant.”
“You are joking.”
“I am not joking. The
American people are
screaming for bodies to
prove we are really
fighting a war here and
not spending their tax
money on whores. The
press has even said we
have it too easy here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Lieutenant, divide
dollars spent on war
effort by enemy killed in
war effort. You know
more than me how many
bodies we are not
collecting in the field for
the war effort. Why are
higher-ups bribing the
troops to bring them
dead bodies?”
“How would I know how
many are being killed
and how much is being
spent in Vietnam?”
“I do, lieutenant.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“In other words…”
“…a battle will be staged,
innocent civilians, guilty
enemies, and United
States’ soldiers will be
sacrificed to satisfy the
political accountants in
Washington. We’ll even
get rid of a bunch of
niggers, too!”
“But what a waste.”
“It’s necessary. We have
to satisfy generals and
Wall Street financiers.
We have to push forward.
Might is right.”
“Why?”
“It’s the American way.
Bust heads and
everything will fall into
place. Look at World War
II. We cracked a bunch of
German and Jap heads in
that war. Look at the
people who are running
this war. The same
people. The same
mentality. They are
fighting here the way
they fought during World
War II. With outmoded
and obsolete war ideas.
The way we fought in
World War II is not the
way to fight in Vietnam.
Our leaders, the World
War II re-treads that they
are, use book rules and
regulations from another
era. They want to shove
and push against the
wind. That tactic makes
for big battles and for
lucrative promotion
opportunities—not to
mention Bronze Stars,
Silver Stars and Medals
of Honor. But the enemy
is wiser. They hit and
miss, jab, retreat to their
corner. They are making
mincemeat out of us
when they attack, and
with all our firepower,
they still come out with
fewer casualties. We are
fighting unit against man
instead of man against
man. It’s downright
cowardly if you ask me.
But that doesn’t make
the enemy any more
honorable. It makes him
smarter. We have not
learned to handle the
enemy because our
leaders don’t want us to
defeat him. The powers
to be are satisfied with
the situation the way it
is. If we fought properly,
it would be over when we
wanted it to be over—and
without the use of atomic
weapons. But there is
too much money
invested here to end it
now.”
“But to kill people for it?
I can’t think of anything
more stupid.”
“Soldiers have to kill
people otherwise they
wouldn’t be soldiers.
Killing people means the
people have done
something terribly wrong
—terribly un-American—
to warrant their
wholesale destruction.”
“But what have the
Vietnamese done?”
“Probably nothing except
starve all their lives in a
country that doesn’t have
electricity or running
water nor the other
conveniences of the
materialistic whirlwind
the West lives in.”
“They should die for
that?”
“They are dying for that
like people all over the
world are dying for the
greed of others.”
“Look, sergeant, this is
totally insane.”
“Of course, but what are
you going to do about
it?”
“I can’t do anything.”
“And no one wants to do
anything. Oh, there are
some generals who try to
satisfy Washington by
lying. They know what
the score is here and
they know Washington’s
requests are ludicrous
and politically motivated.
That’s why they will
exaggerate body counts.
They are trying to keep
the Pentagon and Capital
Hill cool, but as time goes
by—as the truth trickles
out, as pressure from the
American people mounts
—each and every enemy
body will have greater
significance and the
bullshit will start to
dissipate into thin air. All
of this depends upon the
strength of the New York
dollar controllers and
Texas oil executives.
There is nothing you can
do about it, lieutenant.”
“I sure as hell don’t have
to go killing people for it.
That is a relief.”
“I am sure it is. Count
yourself lucky for that.
There are G. I.’s who will
wake up to this massacre
someday and the two or
three thousand they
saved for a car with
Vietnam dollars will no
longer have the
conscience-buying power
it did once before.”
“There is a streak of
moral-----No! intelligence
in you, sergeant, after
all!”
“I don’t call it intelligence
as you do, lieutenant. I
call it my horse sense.
My common sense. We
are all in this mess
together. Your way is to
remain aloof from it;
mine is to steal as much
as I can before the party
ends. We all will suffer in
the end. Perhaps I do
more than you to end the
war by stealing! You wait
it to an end!”
“I don’t know, sergeant. I
have to think this one out
more. It poses a problem
for me. I can’t kill; I can’t
steal. Two of the most
popular things to do here
in Vietnam. Both very
stupid, both disgusting to
me.”
“Lieutenant, you are too
young to know that the
world is corrupt. But you
will find out that it is.”
“If that’s true, I’ve lost
my virginity in Vietnam!”
“Don’t feel too badly,
lieutenant. You would
have lost it in New York
City working as a stupid
junior executive. It’s all
the same shit!”
T
here was no way in
August, 1968
—“separated” from
the stupid United States
Army—that I was going to
enter the cigar-filled,
cocaine-sniffing back
rooms of corporate New
York, have my Roman
Catholic arm twisted to
march in parades
organized by the Catholic
Vietnam War Veterans
association, and have,
again, my virginity taken
from me after I had once
already lost it in Vietnam.
After the family’s
spiritless WELCOME
HOME FROM THE WAR,
HERO!!! party, I literally
escaped to Hollywood
Hills, Florida, located
between Fort Lauderdale
and Miami, and began to
enjoy some of the most
beautiful months of my
entire life keeping,
always, watch over my
virginity.
I collected
unemployment insurance
from the State of Florida,
bought a RENAULT-10
economy car, and
embarked on a six-month
decompression period
and work search with the
greatest hope imaginable
that I would find a good
job with a newspaper or a
public relations firm: my
military service was
finished, I was a first
lieutenant on the
captain’s list in the
reserve, and I possessed
a university degree.
Who, in his right mind
would not be anxious to
hire me? Everyone!
I drove around southeast
Florida visiting the
Everglades, Key West,
then went to classical
music concerts in Palm
Beach, drove through
orange groves spread out
for miles, stopped to
bathe in waters along the
long, eastern coast of
Florida, and sucked up
every minute I could the
beautiful Florida sunshine
not missing once the
dirty, slushy-after-a-
snowfall New York
streets. I was in a state
of joy. Vietnam was over
for me, and I had
returned without a
scratch and certainly
more convinced than
ever that this life of mine
was to be made by me,
and if I followed in the
ways of some of the jerks
I had met in the United
States Army, I was sure
to be doomed to a life of
conformity and
mediocrity.
The beautiful southeast
Florida did other things
for me I had not enjoyed
for one whole year while
serving the whims of the
soldier-politicians in
Vietnam. A bath in a
clean bathtub was a
ravishment I had dreamt
about for three hundred
and sixty six days. A box
of cigars—in the freezer
of my kitchen—was at my
beck and call. I had
clean, fresh food to eat
once again and did not
have to open cans to get
at it. In Hollywood Hills, I
didn’t have to dig a
foxhole every night. In
Fort Lauderdale, I didn’t
have to ride in
helicopters which might
be shot down. In Miami,
I didn’t have to fall to the
ground with a twenty-five
pound rucksack on my
back when a rifle cracked
in the open. For a while
car back-fires and small
explosions shook me
back to Vietnam, and my
nervous system, still not
“ironed out,” played
tricks on me. Also, if a
Huey helicopter flew
overhead, its clock-
clocking immediately
brought me back to
another time. But even
these quirks melted away
in my mind and
accumulated themselves
with the millions of
others as memories of
the Past. I was just too
happy to be home safe
and sound and I was not
going to bother myself
with nightmares and
memories which would
spoil the good time I was
having and was still to
have more of.
I was driving a taxi for
twelve hours a day for
ten days in a row, with no
more unemployment
insurance, no newspaper
job, no public relations
job, and with not an iota
of hope lost when I
received a letter offering
me $8000 a year as a
social worker in the
northwest section of Fort
Lauderdale with the State
of Florida’s Division of
Family Services. I
grabbed it. Lower back
pain. Accepting, I did not
realize that I was again to
fall into another cesspool
of Northamerican greed
and corruption, and it
even did not dawn on me
that this job would push
me finally to getting up
the courage to leave the
United States for good
and fly eventually to
Caracas, Venezuela on 31
December 1976—never
to ever return to the
United States again.
In February, 1971
Newsweek magazine
featured a cover story:
“Welfare: There Must be
a Better Way,” and in it
insights were evidenced
corroborating the notion
that welfarism was a
failing United States’
system once thought to
be adept at meeting the
needs of the nation’s
impoverished peoples.
In 1971, 13.5 million
people were on welfare in
the United States, and
their cost, borne by the
United States’ taxpayer,
was set at roughly $15
billion. Large cities
comprised, at that time,
the greatest number of
increases to the welfare
rolls. And New York and
California harbored one-
fifth of the nation’s
welfare recipients.
That same month
another magazine, U .S.
News and World Report,
made this revelation:
“Government spending
on the welfare state in
America has finally
reached a point where it
is threatening to
bankrupt the States and
cities, and drain the
United States Treasury
with chronic federal
deficits for as far ahead
as the budget planners
can see.” Welfare was
then out of control; and,
no relief was in sight.
I had been plopped into
this milieu of “budget
stress” and “waste” and
served with the Division
of Family Services for two
years. With all the talk of
inefficiency, efficiency,
high budgets, low
budgets, and injustice,
justice, one thing
remained evident in my
mind: whatever amount
of money was being
allocated to my mostly
Afronorthamerican
“clients”—as we were
told to refer to them—
very little of that funding
was being received by
them. Where was it
going? I only thought of
what Sergeant Gibbs
would have told me!
In 1971, the Division of
Family Services was an
organization—and I have
no reason to believe that
it has progressed so very
much further as of today
—diseased with a
bureaucratic malaise that
aggravated itself through
the office misdeeds of
inept, narrow-minded
routinists. Their fear of
managerial types made
them perfect lackeys
capable of rendering
homage to the whims of
politically-minded state
middle management
factoti.
The “fiscal
conservatism,” spieled
out to journalists as a
way of telling taxpaying
readers that real efforts
were being made to
reduce welfare costs, was
really a false issue to
keep us from doing our
jobs. We were not given
the means to go about
helping the poor
Afronorthamericans in
Florida and the northwest
section of Fort
Lauderdale, and the
reason was that the
racist State of Florida
wanted to keep
Afronorthamericans
clogged in their ghettos
far away from white folk
and white jobs. And
twenty five years later,
these poor souls are still
light years away from
being integrated into the
“what’s best for whites”
way of Floridian life.
The laws for racial
equality which exist in
Florida, and which often
have to be implemented
unwillingly, cosmetically
by federal officials, are
laws that have not much
bite to them. This is so
because the majority of
Floridians see living with
Afronorthamericans as a
sanction instead of a
choice—a choice they
would still not want to
make. The hatred for
Afronorthamericans is so
intense, so permeated
throughout the State of
Florida, it is difficult to
see how progress might
be made to relieve the
burden of the suffering
that this conflict has
harnessed upon both
white and
Afronorthamerican
citizens.
And that despotism, in
1970, was best summed
up by Ramsey Clark in his
book Crime in America:
“In every major city in
the United States you will
find that two-thirds of the
arrests take place among
only about two-percent of
the population. Where is
that area in every city?
Well, it’s in the same
place where infant
mortality is four times
higher than in the city as
a whole; where the death
rate is 25-percent higher;
where life expectancy is
ten years shorter; where
common communicable
diseases with the
potential of physical and
mental damage are six
and eight and ten times
more frequent; where
alcoholism and drug
addiction are prevalent to
a degree far transcending
that of the rest of the
city; where education is
poorest—the oldest
school buildings, the
most crowded and
turbulent school rooms,
the fewest certified
teachers, the highest rate
of dropouts; where the
average formal schooling
is four to six years less
than for the city as a
whole. Sixty-percent of
the children in Watts in
1965 lived with only one,
or neither, of their
parents.”
In many ways, these
statistics are worse in
1994. Many of us, who in
1970 knew about this,
tried to help—with little
success. My friends and I
at the Division of Family
Services had our hands
tied, and we did the best
we could to bring about
changes. All of us knew
that the State of Florida
was an accomplice to the
crime of keeping
Afronorthamericans in
“their place,” and they
did only what they had to
do (little) to help those
poor people pick
themselves up by the
bootstraps and assist
them in their search for a
more dignified life free
from the encumbrance
that keeps them in a
state of despair and
economic impotence.
The general unlawful
activity, the social
crimes, of the State of
Florida’s Division of
Family Services is a
disgrace not only for the
State of Florida, but also
for the entire nation
which abets the
lackadaisicalness of the
Division of Family
Services as it skirts the
issues of bringing a just
and progressive form of
aid to those individuals
who are in need of it.
New priorities need to be
set; new approaches
sought after. But when?
But how? Little has been
done since the 1970s and
little is going to be done
in the 1990s.
W
ith two years in
the Army and
two years in the
Division of Family
Services on my
curriculum vitae, I never
thought to return to New
York with my tail between
my legs, but I did think
that my decision to leave
the United States for
once and for all was all
the more an imperative
for me. Obviously we
were incompatible!
This was an awesome
settling for me and one
which I did not take
lightly. One which I did
not jump to in a hurry—
for sure. When I took off
from Miami for Caracas, I
looked back upon the
United States as an old
girlfriend I once loved but
yet did not want to ever
be with again. For many,
many reasons I admire
the United States of
America. Yet, there were
too many lies, too many
times. I had many good
times snuggled up to her
bosom. With all my
heart, I wish the United
States all the best. And
with all my heart, I hope I
will never have to return
to the United States ever
again.
America
: demands a political
Love it
or
Leave
it!
* * *
EPILOGUE
Northamerican
reactionaries and elite
groups—opposing
progress—have had too
much a share of
pessimism and
negativism to offer their
Northamerican
constituents. They have
grouped together to form
palsy-walsy social,
cultural, economic and
political ties which serve
the inclusive general
concept that a
government should dole
out political and civil
honors according to
wealth. The conservative
is not interested in
offering a fair shake to
his fellow man, and he
excludes him/her from his
power circles with the
justification that life
philosophy which exalts
the nation and a select
group of individuals
above all others, and that
severe economic and
social regimentation, and
the forcible suppression
of the opposition, are
necessary measures to
exercise stringent control
over the masses who are Anthony St. John
considered inferior to the Casella Postale 38
50041 CALENZANO FI
nobler and more
Italia
privileged fuddy-duddy.

I deny this philosophy 1 July 1994

and its aspects of myopic
gloom. I look for
programs which show
liveliness and interest in
good things. Which look
with hope to the future.
Which signal danger, but
communicate love and
understanding.

“Human behavior leads

to make-believe,
disequilibrium,
frustrations, lies, or, on
the contrary, it becomes
the source of rewarding
experiences, in
accordance with its
manner of expression in
actual living—whether in
bad faith, laziness,
generosity and freedom,”
so said Simone de
Beauvoir.

I wish that all people

might arrive to the point
where they can enjoy
their lives in a spirit of
generosity, lucidity and
freedom, and I beg the
United States Army and
the Division of Family
Services to come to their
political and human
senses and yield to the
ideal that all men belong
to the same community
where equality and
justice for all is the
common goal.

* * *

Authored by