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A Night in Saigon
March 21, 2011
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This particular story isn't about the times when the
barbarians were not only at the gates but in the
wire as well, with malice in their hearts. At the
moment, I'm reminded of a different sort of
conflict. As a matter of fact, I wasn't on Trang-Sup
at all when this took place.
The scene that
plays behind my drowsing eyes is of me and the "Cambode"
riding on the backs of motorcycles down a large
boulevard in Saigon, probably Tu Do Street. We were
both comfortably smashed, which is why I was on the
motorcycle in the first place; I certainly wouldn't
have gotten on one sober. Riding them must have been
Cambode's idea.
Most of that night is a
blur; I don't remember where we went, or what we
did. I just remember heading back for home alone,
still on a motorbike. It could have been the same
one I started the evening riding. The operator,
ignoring my protests, suddenly decided to take a
short cut. I found myself traveling through an
ominously dark and unsavory part of town, something
I wasn't too happy about even in my cheerfully
pickled state.
The driver paid little heed
to my protests until I remembered, wonder of
wonders, that I had neglected to check my .45 in at
the 619th along with my other gear when I arrived on
Tan Son Nhut from Trang-Sup. Somehow, that always
seemed to happen when we came in to Saigon. As usual
when I discovered my mistake, I couldn't leave the
gun laying around the team house, so there it was,
nestled snugly in my waistband beneath my shirt.
It was remarkable how quickly my chauffeur's
cooperation improved when he felt the muzzle of that
large weapon behind his ear. Or maybe it was the
cheery click of it being cocked that so focused his
attention. At any rate, he soon found his way back
to more brightly lit, populated streets where we
parted company amicably and went our separate ways.
I think we parted friends; at least, he
didn't wait to be paid and didn't call me dinky-dow*
until he looked back as he was speeding off and saw
that both my hands were empty. I guess riding along
with an angry drunk pressing a .45 in the crack of
his ass had soured his disposition somewhat.
He didn't know that I had quietly lowered the hammer
and slid the safety on, so a sudden bump wouldn't
have instantly endowed him with a second anal
orifice. I really wasn't as much worried about his
health as I was about accidentally gelding myself.
That .45 was snuggled against both his and my more
treasured parts.
Our little adventure had
sobered me up considerably. I got off that bike a
lot more clear-headed than I had been when I got on
it. At least, thanks to my absent-mindedness with
the hand gun...and the driver's sudden grasp of
English...I didn't have to strangle the little
rascal and learn to operate a motorcycle myself that
night. But I was just flat not about to go wherever
it was that he'd planned to take me. Call me a
candy-ass.
Now, I cite absent-mindedness
about having the gun handy since I would never, ever
have deliberately disobeyed orders and carried a
loaded .45 with me onto the light-hearted, tranquil
streets of downtown 1966 Saigon. No, not me.
*Americanization of Dien cai dau - crazy. |
 By
Thurman P. Woodfork
Copyright 2003
About
Author...
Thurman P. Woodfork (Woody) spent his
Air Force career as a radar repairman in places as disparate as
Biloxi, Mississippi; Cut Bank, Montana; Tin City, Alaska; Rosas,
Spain and Tay Ninh, Vietnam. In Vietnam, he was assigned to
Detachment 7 of the 619th Tactical Control Squadron, a Forward Air
Command Post located on Trai Trang Sup. Trang Sup was an Army
Special Forces camp situated about fifty miles northwest of Saigon
in Tay Ninh province, close to the Cambodian border.
After Vietnam, Woody remained in the Air Force for nine more years.
Visit
Thurman P. Woodfork's site for more information |
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