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RECOLLECTIONS

By Pete Zastrow

Pete Zastrow
VVAW National Office

Just why we remember some things about the experience of Vietnam, some 20 years back, is hard to say. With some memories it's easy to understand: the kind of churning sensation in the lower gut which came from setting up for the night in a position that I was dead certain the hostiles knew about, with nothing for defense except a kind of prayer that whoever was running their operation didn't want a fight anymore than I did. But of all the episodes that stretched through the 364 days (and a wake-up) that were my Vietnam experience, I remember one that condensed, in one day, the utter absurdity of what our government was using us—its faithful servants—to do in Vietnam.

It must have been about May, 1968, when, in their wisdom, some higher authorities decided that the Montagnard village would have to be "relocated." That these hill people—treated like dirt by our Vietnamese allies—had lived in the same place for at least 800 years (4 times as long as the U.S. had existed) was unimportant. What was important, according to one American official, was that about 90% of the villagers were suspected of being VC sympathizers. Relocation would put them within sight of a Special Forces camp where there activities could be monitored.

I was the information officer (PIO) for the 2nd Brigade of the 1st Air Cav at that time. Moving day for an entire village was a story which could be used to make our Brigade command look good ("Hill folk saved from clutches of the Commies through 1st Air Cav" would make a fine headline) and that was our reason for existing. I jumped on a helicopter to cover the story.

LZ Joe was an almost abandoned airstrip—two paved slabs between a forest of evenly spaced rubber trees in an area 40 or 50 miles north of Saigon. A Special Forces camp was at one end. At the other end, a 1st Cav engineer unit had cleared some of the undergrowth between the rubber trees and had set up some large Army tents. When we got there at 8:30 or 9 o'clock in the morning, ox carts, filled way beyond capacity, were already arriving. A couple of Cav 2 1/2 ton trucks were bumping along paths bringing a few extra belongings.

I have no idea what home was like for Montagnards who were being forced to find a new home. It was not, I'm sure, Army tents tied to rubber trees. But they adapted quickly. Pigs were put in pens—squealing, for sure—next to the tents. Duck boards (narrow boards nailed across 2x4's to keep belongings off the ground and out of the mud) appeared as flooring for the tents and as porches. The Montagnards started scouting out the area under the wary eye of 1st Cav troops who did not want to get very far away from the airstrip clearing.

Still looking for a story, I did notice one family which had enjoyed the new territory by catching a long brown snake, now stuck between a couple of sticks and cooking in front of a fire at the doorstep of the tent. Only one family, that I saw, had to be told not to hurt the rubber trees (they wanted to cut one down) which no doubt belonged to some French millionaire, long departed from Vietnam.

Because I had the rank of captain, and because the command of the 1st Air Cav cared little about this operation, I was, through much of the day, the ranking U.S. officer on the spot. So I was the one who was told by the special forces commander that although the public reason for moving these folk was to protect them from the bad guys, the real reason was that they were 95% VC sympathizers and we wanted to watch them. And there were other perks to my position.

The newly located montagnards—who had finished cooking the snake—invited me to join them for lunch. It was an honor; I could hardly say no. We had snake, freshly cooked, washed down with rice wine in not-too-clean glasses (though the rice wine would sterilize most anything) and leaves/salad. The meal was punctuated by many smiles (were they laughing at the silly American eating snake?), numerous children and, on my part, some strenuous efforts to swallow the gristly snake; I refused more in hopes they would enjoy it more than I.

This feast was only the first luncheon invitation I would receive for the day. In immaculate, freshly pressed fatigues, in drove the district chief, riding in his spit-shined jeep, sporting metallic reflecting sun glasses and PX-purchased Polaroid. He too was a captain (in the Vietnamese army, though too important to be in actual service), younger than I; fairly well substantiated rumors said that he needed to stay in the district chief job for not more than a year to amass a fortune sufficient for permanent and elegant retirement.

Though he was paying, only a brief visit to the new site of the village, his had been the first tent set up. It had chairs, unlike the Montagnard tent where we sat on the ground. For lunch, we were served French liqueurs, beer from a large ice bucket, and smoked salmon. Given the hardships of being in the "field" it was fine dining. No villagers, as far as I could tell, were invited.

But the best was yet to come. Who knows what military genius at First Air Cav Headquarters came up with the concept that the Montagnards needed entertainment to feel at home—or what SP4 with a keen sense of the ridiculous got the right orders put out. In any case, about 3:00 in the afternoon, a couple of Chinooks settled down on the airstrip; out of them came the men of the 1st Cav Division band, instruments in tow. Hustled along by some senior non-com band director not too comfortable with being quite so far away from the safety of Cav HQ's the band set up in the middle of the new village and began a medley of tunes from "My Fair Lady,"

The Montagnards looked amazed. I know I was. Here were people torn from their roots at the whim of a couple of Special Forces jerks, moved lock stock and barrel to a tent city with no provisions for a way to earn a living, and finally serenaded with incomprehensible music from a culture as foreign as if it came from Mars. I could only ask myself (though not for publication) as we flew away from the area, how many hearts and minds had the U.S. won that day?

And yet what I still remember, more than the inherent stupidity of U.S. efforts, was the smiles on the faces of some of the Montagnards. Was it the smile of men who know they better smile or the crazy Americans just might kill them, rape their wives and destroy their families—the smile of the terror-stricken—or were they the smiles of men who somehow knew that no matter what idiocies and indignities we might put them through, they were the winners and we—with helicopters and bands and district chiefs in our pockets—would surely lose.