To Saigon
J. R., the battalion mail clerk, was obsessed with Australia. “I'll arrange it. The girls are unbelievable and there’s steak every night.” “I think I’ll pass.” A few weeks later, we were lifting weights. “Hey man.” “What’s up?” “Business in Saigon. You might like it.” I had a bug for Saigon, source of all the trouble at the defense department. “What’s the plan?” He dropped the weights and wiped his face with a towel. “Job for the Bird. You better bring your .45.” We typed up trip tickets, drew a jeep from the motor pool, and got out onto Route 1, a road somewhat less than thrilling. Occult symbols carved on stone markers sat along the sides. “Buddhist swastikas,” J. R. explained, “for good luck.” Blew my mind. Everything changed an hour later on Tu Do Street, clogged with taxis, bicycles and scooters of every imaginable type. Hard to believe that a war was being fought next-door. “You won’t find this in Minneapolis, mate. Look at the life!” exclaimed J. R. He was groping for 2nd ...