Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Taps for the North Country Dead

Forty-five years ago, just after sunset on a hillside along the border of New York and Canada, the sad sounds of taps echoed through the hills. It was a warm evening in the summer of ’67 when hundreds of townspeople – nearly everyone living in Ausable Forks, a tiny hamlet of 500 or so souls – came out to pay last respects to a local boy, James Saltmarsh, killed a week earlier in Vietnam. An honor guard had fired 21 rifle volleys as yet another son of the North Country of upper New York State was laid to rest. Finally the elegiac lament of the bugle was heard, closing the burial ceremony in the breathtaking High Peaks region of the beautiful Adirondack Mountains.

High Peaks, Adirondacks, northern New York
It was an ordinary burial ground, not a place dedicated to the military dead. Over the years I had become familiar with military cemeteries, having visited several abroad.  I rarely came away unaffected by the magisterial simplicity of those solemn places, calling to mind legions of eternal youth no longer walking the earth. Mostly young, of course – so many truncated lives. My first such experience was when passing through eastern Poland in the ‘60s. I was visiting a Polish colleague at a university near Lublin. He took me for a drive, he wanted to show me something.
We came to a small elegantly fenced-in area. Entering, I realized it was a cemetery, but an unusual one. There was just a single stone obelisk with Cyrillic script, standing guard so to speak, over rows of widely spaced, carefully landscaped low mounds, each with a bronze marker. This was the burial place of hundreds of Soviet soldiers who fell liberating Poland in 1944. No trace of individualization, a fast moving army had buried its dead quickly and collectively. The men of 8th Guards Army lay with their comrades, regiment by regiment.  I was well aware of the scale of Soviet war losses, but still seeing them up close left me stunned.
Some years later I was visiting friends outside London and, walking about a suburban town, happened upon a vast military cemetery, the largest in Great Britain. There lay nearly 5000 young Englishmen, Canadians, New Zealanders, Australians, South Africans, and even some Americans from the two world wars – each with a simple stone marker carved with the man’s name, rank, unit, and, inevitably, short life span. The place was beautifully kept, symmetrical rows of white markers stretching across immense lawns as far as the eye could see.

Brookwood Military Cemetery, Woking, Surrey, England
But for me the most affecting of these sad sights was in 1990 on the eve of the collapse of the Soviet Union. Traveling by boat up the Volga, I and my companions went ashore at the place formerly called Stalingrad, the scene of one of history’s legendary battles, where well over a million Russian and German soldiers met their deaths.
Our Russian guide, a young woman, led us to the Soviet victory memorial, a massive stone building on a high bluff over the river.  We entered the structure and were struck by its eight-story circular atrium interior, every inch of the soaring walls carved with names of the dead. Pointing high up, the guide said to me quietly that her grandfather’s name was up there. What could one say – I bowed my head.
What of the North Country dead for whom there was no victory. They simply came home to local graveyards in the obscure little towns and villages where they grew up, played football, or marched in the band – places of several thousand residents with names like Cape Vincent, Hannibal, Lowville, Phoenix, Rouses Point, and Ticonderoga. A little further south – in the foothills of the Adirondacks – Glens Falls, the ‘metropolis’ of the region with a population just over 18,000, already had 15 fatalities early in the Vietnam War, nine alone just in the first six months of ’67.
Similarly, in the much smaller town of Mexico on the shores of Lake Ontario in New York’s Oswego County – replete with early American history like the entire region – the local high school had lost three recent graduates in less than a year by fall of ‘67. The Vietnam War dead of the North Country, interred over a huge, sparsely populated area and in numbers disproportional to their percentage of the state’s population, rest in union with nature in an alternate space for the military dead spread over forested mountains and across green valleys along the fast moving streams and rivers.
The great majority of the North Country dead were not drafted – they enlisted, volunteered. What impelled so many to step forward into a war that became increasingly unpopular. Settled in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, the region had been relatively prosperous from mining, logging, valley farms, and numerous sawmills, pulp/paper mills and other riparian enterprises strung along the many waterways of the Adirondacks.
By mid-20th century, however, the North Country was in decline – in the 1890s New York had created Adirondack State Park, the largest of its kind in the United States, designating 6,000,000 acres ‘forever wild’ which greatly restricted logging. Mining was played out, and many of the small riverside mills long shut down, their giant water wheels turning aimlessly, while the larger paper companies had gradually moved to the South, a land of cheap labor, less environmental concern.
By the ‘60s, the North Country had become a region of little economic opportunity. For the boys graduating from high school in its many small communities, there wasn’t much work. Sure, around the many lakes there were jobs serving the summer tourist trade, but those were seasonal. New York State had by then created an extensive state higher educational system, including many inexpensive two-year community colleges – at all of which deferments from the draft awaited. However, many of the North Country boys, a large number of whom grew up on farms, had neither interest nor money for pursuing further education.
With the unemployment rate 50 percent above the statewide average, the military beckoned to the boys of the upper Adirondacks, attracted by a combination of adventure, challenge, and, not least, employment. Nearly a lifetime later, as I riffled through myriad obituaries of the North Country dead, it was uncanny how many of those young men had been athletes, opting for the Marines or airborne. Often they virtually went from the football field to distant battlegrounds with exotic names like Dak To, Con Thien, Khe Sanh – for so many of them, places of no return. As one 20-year old in the process of filling out enlistment papers at a local recruiting office put it, “There just isn’t that much for a young guy to do.”*
For the boys of the Adirondacks, the journey was all too often a short one. Vietnam tours were 12 and 13 months, and when a GI or Marine was done, he could head home, ‘back to the world’ as they called it. Some 58,000 never completed their tours, including the North Country dead. They’d go off to war – Basic Training, Advanced Infantry Training, deployment to Nam, often cut down by enemy fire or a land mine early tour, mid-tour, and occasionally just weeks before return. Next of kin notified.
During WWII, it was the dreaded telegram. Or, as depicted in Saving Private Ryan, a farm mother standing at the kitchen sink looking through the window, seeing a khaki brown car in the distance, watching with apprehension as it turned into the access road, steadily coming up the hill to the house.
In modern wars with their ‘lighter’ casualties, notification can occur at warp speed and is always personally delivered. A few weeks back in Mechanicville NY just south of the Adirondacks – the smallest city by area in the state – a middle-aged mother awaited a call from her Marine son. Since deployment to Afghanistan earlier in the fall, he rang home every week at 6 AM Sunday morning. His mother set the alarm, rose early, but no call. A few hours later a knock at the door – two Marine officers, the young man had been killed 24 hours earlier – shot in the neck, just over a month in-country. She told the press he had wanted to serve in Afghanistan adding, “I’m extremely proud of my son.”**

Mother of a Fallen Marine, Mechanicville, NY, 2012
For the fallen from Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, it’s home in a box, family and neighbors gather, a sad requiem, the flag folded, presented to the mother, almost always the mother, the gravediggers standing at a respectful distance turn to the final work. What then of the enduring casualties of war, of all wars, the survivors, the parents, a young wife. From the mother and father of a Russian soldier killed in the Soviet Afghan War, a final message carved on his tombstone, “Dearest Igor, You left this life without having known it.”† The lost one is of course buried in the hearts of those who loved him now left with just memories and photos.
Some years after Vietnam, in a documentary on the war, an older couple was filmed sitting quietly in their living room, a picture of a young man in uniform in a silver frame between them, their only child, a pilot shot down over North Vietnam. Not for them the revisionism of defeat – we shouldn’t have been there, lives wasted – no, the war remained a just cause, their son did his duty, they were ever proud. Or fighting back tears, the same sentiments more recently by the mother of an Afghan GI, Sgt Orion Sparks: “He didn’t shirk any of his years. … I felt honored that he was my son and I was able to be part of his life.”***
Long after the guns go silent, time passes, rights and wrongs fade, -- the parents grow old, the young widow remarries, children grow up, move away, but the boy who went to war remains, forever young, in the silver frame on the mantle. The strange poetry of war obits, the military fanfare at graveside, the heartrending notes of taps closing a life – all become distant memory. Pain dulls, but never goes away.

Cpl Wm. Aspinall, Plattsburgh, and PFC Chas. Raver, Phoenix
        KIA - Thua Thien, 1967, and  Quang Nam, 1968     
The young men in those picture frames remain unchanged, the boy who went off to war remains as we last remember him. And so it was with my brother Jeff Sharlet who served in Vietnam, was possibly exposed to something there – perhaps Agent Purple, we don’t know – and died several years later at 27. For our parents, now long gone, as for all those North Country families and the mothers of those two Afghan GIs, in spite of reaffirming sentiments, nothing could be worse than losing a child.
I remember the day we buried Jeff. It was a beautiful sunny June day in ‘69. I sat between my parents as the limo sped along the broad avenues toward the cemetery, the hearse flanked by two outriders – booted, helmeted motorcycle policemen, in reflecting sunglasses, astride big Harleys.  To my distraught mind, two images came to the fore – a scene from the 1950 French film Orpheus when ‘Death’, a striking woman cloaked in black, arrives by limo, preceded by goggled motorcycle outriders, submachine guns slung, announcing her authority; and then as we approached the cemetery gates, the more gentle image from the opening and closing lines of Emily Dickinson’s poem:

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me …

Since then ‘t is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.

*New York Times, July 12, 1967
**Albany (NY) Times-Union, December 3, 2012
***Military Resistance #10J11, October 21, 2012              









Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Antiwarriors Mobilize – Brothers Divergent

Brother Jeff and I returned to the States in the late spring of ’64, he from the Vietnam War still in its infancy, and I from the Soviet Union. I had just finished a year’s study of Marxist legal theory at Moscow University Law School. While I had been studying Communism, Jeff had been fighting it in Southeast Asia. How our experiences shaped us couldn’t have been more different.

We met again that summer at our parents’ place in Coral Gables outside Miami. It was an all too brief reunion – Jeff and I both had to get on with our stateside lives. I headed north to Washington to finish up research on my doctoral dissertation at the Library of Congress. Jeff went west, back to Indiana University (IU) – where I was taking my PhD – to complete his undergraduate education.†

Back from Vietnam – Jeff in Florida, Summer ‘64

A half year later Jeff and I were again off on our different trajectories, I starting my academic career at the University of Missouri (Mizzou), Jeff beginning spring term at IU. I was teaching introductory courses on politics and international relations along with an upperclass course on Soviet politics with no prior classroom experience.
Jeff was taking a full course load, including US and comparative politics, American intellectual history, a course on the novel, and a course on totalitarian political patterns—totalitarianism at the time was very much in vogue as a descriptor of Soviet Bloc and Asian communist regimes. Colleagues and I would later successfully challenge the concept, but that’s another story.
Meanwhile back in South Vietnam (SVN), the low-key war had been steadily heating up. The South Vietnamese army (ARVN), assisted by some 15,000 US military advisers, was fighting a communist guerrilla insurgency against the Viet Cong (VC) supported by North Vietnam (NVN). The war was not going well for SVN, which had persuaded the late President Kennedy (JFK) to accede to the South Vietnamese generals’ coup against President Diem in November ’63.
Unfortunately, the situation in Saigon had only grown worse following the coup. A junta of generals, divided among themselves, could not effectively govern. Political instability combined with military ineptitude weighed down the floundering regime. A second coup toppled the junta a few months later.  Then followed a series of coups and attempted coups throughout ‘64. None of this confusion was lost on the VC, nor on their military mentors in the North. By early ’65, the VC had achieved de facto control of large parts of the country.
All this produced alarm among the Washington policy makers. The CIA had forecast that the time was near when the VC could triumph. The US guarantee of the independence of a non-communist SVN was at stake. More and more, the emboldened VC were infiltrating the cities and populated areas specifically to attack US military facilities and places where American personnel gathered for recreation.
On January 20, 1965, President Johnson (LBJ) was inaugurated, and just two days at a confidential briefing of the congressional leadership he broadly intimated that he was about to begin bombing North Vietnam. All he needed was a pretext; the VC obliged in early February with a destructive attack on the American base at Pleiku in the Central Highlands, and LBJ responded with air strikes against NVN. A few days later, a concerned Jeff wrote me, “I could get recalled very easily (Ready Reserves, Vietnamese linguist, Intelligence experience).”
It was soon evident that the retaliatory strikes had been pre-planned dress rehearsals for a full-scale bombing campaign, code-named Rolling Thunder, that was launched in March. Marine combat battalions soon followed to secure the air bases from which strikes against the North were being flown. By those two abrupt moves, LBJ had dramatically escalated the war. The sudden exponential increase in American involvement in the civil war of a country most people couldn’t find on a map, in turn elicited a sharp negative reaction among faculty and students at a number of major universities.

We'll smash down your doors, we don't bother to knock
We've done it before, so why all the shock
We're the biggest and the toughest kids on the block
And we're the Cops of the World, boys
We're the Cops of the World

The University of Michigan at Ann Arbor quickly became the focal point of opposition to the escalation. A number of UM students were veteran activists of the civil rights movement in the South, and the campus had a strong chapter of SDS, Students for a Democratic Society, a national organization formed there in the early ‘60s. Michigan was also home to a sizeable number of politically active professors. These forces came together to organize what became the first ‘Teach-In’ on Vietnam, an initial step toward what would eventually become a nationwide antiwar movement.
As a political and moral response to Washington, a group of Michigan faculty planned a one-day teaching strike. The strikers would refuse to teach their regular classes and instead spend the time introducing interested students to the critical issues of America’s war in Vietnam. Nearly 50 professors signed up, but Governor George Romney and the university president opposed the strike. At the 11th hour, a compromise was reached: instead of cancelling classes, concerned faculty would teach their courses, but continue teaching through the night; thus was born the idea of a teach-in as a forum for informed protest.

Ann Arbor Teach-In Poster
The first teach-in began at 8 PM on Wednesday, March 24th and went on through the night until daybreak the 25th. The dorm curfew for women was suspended, greatly swelling the turnout to over 3,000 students; along with 200 faculty, it was the largest demonstration in the university’s history.
The main speakers were two academics with field experience in Vietnam who knew the country well, an economist from the East, and a Michigan State anthropologist. One speaker recited Vietnam’s long history of fending off invaders, while the other simply pronounced the war unwinnable.


University of Michigan Teach-In, March 24-25, 1965

At other colleges and universities, small groups of activists gathered to listen in to the Michigan speakers via telephone hook-ups. At IU, Jeff was undoubtedly one of the best informed on the subject, judging by the discussion of Vietnam in his letters from that period.

Activist Leaders at Indiana – Bernella & David Satterfield, ‘64

Thanks to national media coverage of the Michigan event, the teach-in format was soon replicated at over 100 other campuses, including the University of Missouri. At Mizzou, however, the organizers decided to stage a teach-in as a balanced debate between pro- and anti-Administration speakers. In contrast to brother Jeff’s growing opposition to US policy, I along with an American historian was the lead debater on the pro side of the question. We were opposed by two scholars of South Asia, one a political scientist, the other a historian.
For nearly five hours, the four of us debated US policy in Vietnam before an audience of 500+ students crammed into an auditorium in the Business School. The South Asian specialists both viewed the Vietnam conflict in historical and regional contexts, emphasizing the need for a negotiated settlement before the US got in too deeply. At the time as a JFK liberal internationalist, I looked at the problem within the framework of the bi-polar Soviet-American Cold War conflict.
The Cold War was then at an uncertain point. Khrushchev, a reformer, had been ousted from power in Moscow by a coalition of former Stalinists just six months earlier. Although he’d been aggressive in the international sphere (witness the Cuban Missile Crisis of ’62), the following year he’d agreed to JFK’s proposed treaty banning nuclear tests in the atmosphere – a very important step in the effort to slow down the dangerous arms race. By the spring of ’65 when I spoke at Mizzou, the full foreign policy intentions of Khrushchev’s successors, especially in the former colonial world now called the Third World, were by no means yet clear.
Hence, I saw Vietnam as a surrogate war between NVN, a Soviet and Chinese Communist ally, and SVN, a US ally. In those years, the US had put in place a policy of global ‘containment’ by means of an encircling network of bases and military alliances. The idea was to keep the Soviet empire and, by then, its rival Chinese sphere of influence, in check, i.e., not permit either the Soviets or the Chinese to extend the authoritarian communist model beyond their borders.
The US was particularly concerned about the Third World, which was undergoing rapid decolonialization that left power vacuums in its wake. South Vietnam was, of course, a Third World country; from a Cold War angle of vision, both the USSR and China were probing, via their proxy NVN and its agent, the VC, to expand the international communist domain to the South. No one, not even the ‘doves’ had any illusions that the North could carry the fight to the South without massive military and economic aid from the two giants of the Communist world.
After the debaters presented, the Mizzou audience was invited to pose questions or make short statements from the floor. In retrospect, the most prescient remark of that long afternoon was made by Professor William Allen, a noted young historian of Germany. He vigorously opposed US policy and advocated complete withdrawal from Vietnam. Of course, he was right.

It's written in the ashes of the village towns we burn
It's written in the empty bed of the fathers unreturned
And the chocolate in the children's eyes will never understand
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land†††
At the end of the debate, the moderator asked the audience to signal by applause which set of arguments they found most persuasive. While both sides found support, by dint of applause, the pro-Administration position seemed to prevail.
Most notable of the post-Michigan teach-ins were the national teach-in in mid-May and the ‘mother’ of all teach-ins that season, the huge one at Berkeley toward the end of the month. At the national event in Washington, broadcast live on radio and television throughout the country, two leading specialists on Vietnam, Kahin of Cornell and Scalapino of Berkeley, duked it out.
The Berkeley affair attracted an aggregate of 30,000 participants from the San Francisco Bay area listening to nearly 50 speakers over a period of 36 hours, by far the longest and the largest teach-in that spring. Although not intended as a balanced debate, at least one pro-Administration speaker was included. He and the lead-off presenter ended up as polar opposites in the spectrum of comments at the teach-in – one wildly idealistic, the other darkly dystopian.
A historian from Yale opened the teach-in, proposing civil disobedience so massive and persistent that LBJ and his war cabinet “will forthwith resign.”* At the other end of the spectrum, a Berkeley political scientist foresaw – absent continued US resistance – SVN as “Communist totalitarian regime” with a regimented population wakened in the mornings to the sound of bugles and forced to work long days in pursuit of the regime’s goals.**
That first turbulent spring of the newly escalated American war in Vietnam came to an end with what would become legions of ‘antiwarriors’*** mobilizing on the nation’s campuses. As for Jeff and me, our respective academic business finished for the summer, we continued our separate ways – he off to Mexico to hang out with friends; I to Washington to advise on US-USSR arms control. Brothers divergent.
*L Menashe, ed, Berkeley Teach-In: Vietnam (1966), 3


***The term is from Melvin Small, Antiwarriors: The Vietnam War and the Battle for America’s Hearts and Minds (2002) 

††† White Boots Marching in a Yellow Land:

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Fixin' To Die Rag

It was 1964, the year Beatlemania, that frenzy of screaming, hysterical girls, swept the States.  The Beatles, aka the Fab Four, was a group of working class young men from England who led the so-called ‘British Invasion’, arrived on these shores, and quickly conquered America with their innovative music and distinctive style. By August a film had even been released, A Hard Day’s Night:

♫It's been a hard day's night
And I've been working like a dog
It's been a hard day's night
I should be sleeping like a log

Later in the year Jeff Sharlet came home from Vietnam, not long before the Gulf of Tonkin incident in the South China Sea, destined to become a turning point in the Vietnam War. After North Vietnamese fast boats attacked a US destroyer, President Johnson (LBJ) ordered a retaliatory air strike, the country rallied around the flag, and Congress passed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, non-binding political rhetoric that both LBJ and his successor Richard Nixon would subsequently use as the basis for waging full-scale war in Southeast Asia.

Jeff had seen that war first hand and was returning to Indiana University (IU) to study politics. His letters home had indicated serious reservations about the US mission in Vietnam and our deepening involvement there. As a trained Vietnamese linguist and serving in the top secret Army Security Agency (ASA), he’d been in a position to see and hear more of what became America’s quagmire. ASA, whose motto was “We weren’t there,” wryly described itself with the saying “In God we trust, all others we monitor.”
Listen, do you want to know a secret
Do you promise not to tell?
America in ’64 was alive with protest. The Civil Rights Movement was at its peak and scored a great legislative victory with the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Anti-nuke groups such as SANE from the ‘50s began taking note of the growing conflict in South Vietnam. At the University of California-Berkeley (Berkeley), major student activism emerged with the ‘Free Speech Movement’ (FSM). At Ann Arbor in the upper Midwest, a fledgling activist group founded earlier, Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), began to flourish as the war in Southeast Asia heated up.  Marches and demonstrations everywhere rang with the familiar strains of We Shall Overcome:

We are not afraid, we are not afraid,
We are not afraid today;
Oh, deep in my heart, I do believe,
We are not afraid today.

Berkeley Students used a police car with arrestee inside as a podium
Basically conservative IU was still quiet but for a fair amount of griping about curfews for women.  A campaign against compulsory ROTC, the military's Reserve Officer Training Corps, would prove successful in the spring of '65. Students of the right age or in possession of a fake or borrowed ID were more likely to be singing along with Roger Miller's country hit Chug-a-lug (downing an entire alcoholic drink without stopping) than with Bob Dylan's With God on Our Side:

Jukebox and sawdust floor
Somthin' like i've never seen
Heck I'm just going on 15,
But with the help of my fanaglein' uncle
I get snuk in for my first taste of sin
I said let me have a big old sip
bbbb i done a double back flip
In contrast, Bob Dylan’s poetry set to music was still a little ahead of the curve for IU where fraternity and sorority life and college sports were the main events:
Oh my name it is nothin’
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I’s taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that the land that I live in
Has God on its side
LBJ escalated the war in early ‘65. Draft calls were up, the Marines had landed, and US fighter-bombers began systematically pounding North Vietnam. Troop strength rose rapidly, soon reaching 50,000. We were seriously at war. Students and faculty at Berkeley, Michigan, University of Wisconsin, as well as at IU and elsewhere felt betrayed. The previous fall in the wake of the Tonkin crisis, LBJ had run for election against Senator Goldwater, a hawk on Vietnam, promising “We … seek no wider war.” Behind the scenes, as later revealed, the President had already ordered the Pentagon to begin contingency planning for escalation in Vietnam. As Tom Paxton explained it:

Lyndon Johnson told the nation,
"Have no fear of escalation.
I am trying everyone to please.
Though it isn't really war,
We're sending fifty thousand more,
To help save Vietnam from Vietnamese."
 Lyndon Johnson and Tom Paxton

At the University of Michigan, a ‘teach-in’ was organized to inform the campus community on the war and to protest it; about 3500 attended the all-night sessions, and women's hours were even suspended.  Lectures and debates, heard via telephone links at Indiana and many other campuses, were the core of the event, which also included films and musical events at the Ann Arbor end.  The fledgling New Left at IU, mostly politically active grad students, coalesced around the Michigan Teach-in relay and joined the SDS-sponsored March on Washington on April 17, 1965.

IU Students March on Washington, 1965
By this time protest music was well-established. Now-famous Joan Baez along with Phil Ochs and the Freedom Singers, were on hand to perform. The ever-voracious draft was prompting more draft card burning, and many young men were fleeing to Canada. Satirist Phil Ochs, a critical opponent of the war policy, penned Draft Dodger Rag as US involvement in the war grew:

Oh, I'm just a typical American boy from a typical American town
I believe in God and Senator Dodd and a-keepin' old Castro down
And when it came my time to serve I knew "better dead than red"
But when I got to my old draft board, buddy, this is what I said:

Sarge, I'm only eighteen, I got a ruptured spleen
And I always carry a purse...

...Besides, I ain't no fool, I'm a-goin' to school
And I'm working in a DE-fense plant
It was around this time that Jim Wallihan arrived at IU, already pretty radicalized by his participation in the FSM at Berkeley. Jim immediately became part of the group looking to establish an SDS chapter at the university. Jeff and Jim became close friends, and Jim persuaded Jeff to lend his authority as an ex-Vietnam GI to SDS. Jeff had felt student protest wouldn’t have sufficient impact on the administration’s war policy, but agreed to give it a try.

The marches, teach-ins, and protests continued to spread. The Vietnam Day Committee at Berkeley mobilized vast student audiences in the San Francisco Bay Area. IU students summering in Bloomington in August ‘65 staged a Hiroshima Day march against the war. A month later a national SDS meeting was held at a state park not far from campus, and that fall the IU SDS chapter was formally launched.
In 40 American cities and foreign capitals large crowds of concerned people participated in the International Days of Protest against American Military Intervention. In Berkeley and across the bay in Oakland, upwards of 15,000 participated in the two-day program. The singers Country Joe McDonald and Tom Paxton;  Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; beat poets Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti; the radical commentator I.F. Stone, and others spoke, sang, read poetry, and marched – ironically to Ochs' I Ain't Marchin' Any More, among other tunes.
♫Call it "Peace" or call it "Treason,"
Call it "Love" or call it "Reason,"
But I ain't marchin' any more,
No I ain't marchin' any more
Vietnam veteran Country Joe, in charge of organizing the music for the program, had just recorded The I Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die Rag, which became an anthem of the antiwar movement:
Well, come on all of you, big strong men,
Uncle Sam needs your help again.
He's got himself in a terrible jam
Way down yonder in Vietnam...

And it's one, two, three,
What are we fighting for ?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam
Country Joe McDonald
IU students joined a coalition of over 30,000 antiwar protestors in Washington DC on November 27th, ten days after a deadly engagement in the Ia Drang Valley in Vietnam, the first major battle between US troops and North Vietnamese units. Both sides claimed victory, but the US 7th Cavalry had clearly taken a mauling. Some victory. By the end of ‘65, monthly draft calls had risen to 35,000; troop strength in Vietnam topped 200,000; and for the antiwar movement America was on the Eve of Destruction:

You're old enough to kill, but not for votin'
You don't believe in war, but what's that gun you're totin'
By ’66 IU, the 11th largest university in the country, still could muster only a couple hundred protestors at a time. That spring Jeff and other SDS activists mounted demonstrations against two high level Washington visitors to campus. Both spoke in support of the war, reflecting Cold War fears of communism and the specter of American defeat in Asia as exemplified by the Fugs' Kill for Peace:

If you don't want America
To play second fiddle,
Kill, kill, kill for peace...
...If you let them live
They might support the Russians
Summer was usually a placid time on the IU campus, but activists joined a planned protest on the occasion of LBJ's Midwestern swing with a stop in Indianapolis. The result – 28 IU protesters preemptively arrested. Public assembly permit in hand, the activists arrived at the site of the President’s address early that morning only to be met by police ordering them away.  They refused, whereupon Secret Service men arrived, followed shortly by paddy wagons that herded them off and out of sight of the media.† Meanwhile to the north in Madison at Wisconsin the first of two major protests against corporate recruiters from Dow Chemical, the manufacturer of napalm, roiled that highly active campus. Legal and campus disciplinary proceedings against IU and Wisconsin students involved in protest actions dragged on, as did the Vietnam War:
Let me tell you the story of a soldier named Dan.
Went out to fight the good fight in South Vietnam...
…And the war drags on.
Found himself involved in a sea of blood and bones
Millions without faces, without hope and without homes...
At IU in a major address at the end of ‘66, the university president demonized the campus New Left. Jeff, Robin Hunter, and Bob Tennyson took issue with him and pushed back in public exchanges.† In Ann Arbor tensions were rising between activists and the Michigan administration over the university’s involvement in military research, while at Wisconsin the Dow recruiters returned to campus and were met this time by a huge determined opposition. Tear gas hung over the campus green as cops and protestors alike were bloodied in what became the first campus antiwar protest to turn violent. America was increasingly divided, as its campuses began falling prey to violence and discord:
There's battle lines being drawn
          Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
        Young people speakin' their minds
       Gettin' so much resistance from behind
I think it's time we stop, hey, what's that sound? Everybody look what's going down
Links to music videos

A Hard Day’s Night:

Do You Want to Know a Secret:
With God on Our Side:
Lyndon Johnson Told the Nation:
Draft Dodger Rag:
I Ain’t Marching Any More:
The I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ to Die Rag:
Eve of Destruction:
Kill for Peace:
The War Drags On:
For What It’s Worth:



Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Shadow Highway – "They Just Keep a-Coming"

It was a low-tech engineering marvel with a lethal purpose. North Vietnam’s (NVN) shadow highway to the south steadily and stealthily delivered men and materiel to the battlefields of South Vietnam (SVN). Its immense success was reflected in admiring nicknames coined by Americans tasked to shut it down. Because of Ambassador Harriman’s illusion of a neutral Laos through which the shadow highway passed, US Saigon Embassy personnel cynically referred to the Ho Chi Minh Trail (the Trail) as the “Averell Harriman Memorial Highway.” A Marine general called it the “Ho Chi Minh Autobahn,” while a Green Beret who had reconnoitered the route said that at times it was “like the Long Island Expressway – at rush hour.”
What Washington dubbed the Ho Chi Minh Trail (actually its official name was the Trường Sơn Strategic Supply Route) had ancient origins in the Annamite Mountains and jungles of Southeast Asia along the western border of what became SVN after the defeat of the French colonialists in 1954. It had long been a loosely connected network of primitive paths and trails through the wilderness trod only by aboriginal tribes inhabiting that sparsely populated, inhospitable area. Only in the late ‘40s during the long Vietnamese war for independence against the French did the network take on some semblance of a logistical trail system. The Viet Minh, the communist-nationalist guerrilla army created by Ho Chi Minh, used the system of trails as a clandestine route for moving fighters from the northern area of France’s Indochina colony to the Mekong Delta in the south below Saigon.
After ’54, the system fell into disuse, temporarily as it turned out. In ’59 the Communist Party of NVN decided to significantly support the ongoing low-level guerrilla insurgency against the government of SVN, and the Trail again saw military traffic. Because the early Trail involved climbing steep, heavily forested mountains and traversing rough jungle terrain, elephants were initially used to carry the heavy supplies. Eventually the preferred vehicle for transporting larger-caliber weapons, ammo, and foodstuffs became specially reinforced bicycles pushed, not ridden, by porters. Frames were strengthened, handlebars fixed with a long steering stick, and a pole for stabilizing the bike arose from the seat. Fully loaded, the bikes carried several hundred pounds.
Bike porters on the Ho Chi Minh Trail
After ’65 when the war escalated on both sides, the Trail was widened, and heavy duty Chinese army trucks replaced bikes. A truck-relay system was developed with designated individual sections of the Trail responsible for keeping their own fleets on the road. An underground pipeline was laid to provide fuel to the way stations along the Trail. Early on, Pentagon planners calculated that only as few as 20 truckloads of cargo a day, a fraction of the truck traffic on the Trail at any one time, had to get through for the NVN to meet its supply requirements in the south. By then the Trail had become a dual system – roads safe only at night for the trucks, while troops marched off-road by day, often having to cut trail as they went.
Throughout the Trail’s active service from ’59 to the fall of Saigon in ’75, North Vietnamese Army (NVA) troops moved along the route with heavy packs weighing as much as 85 lbs that contained food, clothes, and ammo for both the long journey and, ultimately, the SVN battlefields. To reach the Saigon-Mekong Delta region in ’64 by foot took five months.* Even later, after the system was considerably engineered and improved, the full trek still lasted as long as six weeks. To say that NVN’s ‘long march’ was arduous and tested the limits of human endurance would not be an exaggeration.
On the Trail through the mountains
Not all the NVA troops that moved as units were destined for the Mekong theater of operations. The Trail, which paralleled SVN’s border through Laos and Cambodia, had various ‘exits’, much like an American superhighway. The first exit was just below the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) separating North and South Vietnam for units assigned to the Hue-Phu Bai sector, the area where brother Jeff Sharlet served in ’64. Although trail time was shorter for troops headed for that sector, they still had to climb over a rugged mountain range in northeast Laos to reach their destination.
While the Trail was NVN’s conduit for matching US troop levels in the south with NVA combat regiments and battalions, it was maintained by a separate command consisting of tens of thousands of engineering troops, anti-aircraft units, infantry for ground security, and huge numbers of young women volunteers assigned to roadwork – a highly dedicated and efficient combat support force stationed along the myriad byways and alternate routes of the 8000-mile road system.
The Trail and its ‘exits’
For the NVA troops trekking down trail, the terrain, predators, disease, and weather added to the ordeal. The foot trails were stony, rest areas rough-hewn, and the rainforests through which they passed either suffocatingly hot and humid or rain-drenched, perpetually damp, and steamy during monsoon season. Insects and jungle creatures plagued the transiting soldiers. Mosquitos swarmed in clouds; leeches abounded, whether in water crossings or dropping from trees; and poisonous snakes were ever a danger – everyone carried anti-snake venom, which had to be self-administered within three minutes of a bite. Many soldiers died enroute from disease – malaria, typhoid fever, amoebic dysentery, and many other infectious diseases, even plague, were endemic.
However, in terms of sheer ferocity and a staggering death toll, nothing along the Trail matched the US Air Force’s bombing and strafing campaign. When ‘Rolling Thunder’ was launched during spring ’65, Washington believed a relentless bombing campaign of NVN would ‘persuade’ the Communist regime to sue for peace or at least cause them to cease and desist stoking the southern insurgency with streams of men and supplies down the Trail. As the fighting intensified and US illusions about NVN’s commitment and steadfastness began to fall away, the strategic objective shifted to shutting down the pipeline feeding the Viet Cong’s (VC) insurgency against the SVN regime. In military-speak, the objective became ‘interdiction’ to prevent cross-border infiltration from NVN via Laos and Cambodia.
For this purpose, the hi-tech might of the world’s greatest military power was brought to bear on the Trail. The battle in the air against the enemy became a veritable separate, secret war apart from the ground war in SVN where GIs and Marines were going head to head with the VC and NVA battalions from the DMZ to the Mekong Delta. The air war was concealed from Congress as well as the American public because a large percentage of the thousands of air strikes were against the Trail in nominally neutral Laos and Cambodia.
At the outset prop-driven Douglas trainers were deployed to bomb and strafe enemy formations spotted along the shadowy trail. As the flow from the North increased, the air war escalated when Phantom jets armed with rockets and napalm entered the fray. B-52 bombers from Guam, designed for Cold War intercontinental warfare with the Soviets, were added to the order of battle. Carrying enormous bomb loads, the bombers cruised unseen seven miles up from where their deadly cargoes of 750 lb bombs were dropped from map coordinates.
B-52s over the Trail
As part of the Pentagon’s evolving electronic warfare, a device was created for detecting the presence of humans invisible in the impenetrable jungle below from the air. Colloquially known as ‘people sniffers’, the device was slung under a helicopter which reconnoitered suspected Trail areas, picking up the scent of urine. Coordinates would be transmitted, and perhaps the most destructive air weapon of all would be called in – a converted C-130 cargo plane nicknamed ‘Spooky’ because, being slow and flying at low altitude, it operated at night.  Bristling with automatic rapid-fire Gatling-type guns, Spooky would fly over the identified area, sometimes at only 1500’, and literally shower the jungle below with lead at the rate of 15,000 rounds a minute, eerily lighting up the night with red tracers.
One might think such overwhelming power would prevail, would have defeated NVN’s effort to sustain the war in the south. On the contrary, through surprising feats of Engineering 101 and often simple, even primitive countermeasures, the Trail remained a busy military thoroughfare as the vital route to the ground war in the south and ultimate victory in ’75. To counter relentless air attacks, the NVA positioned anti-aircraft guns at critical chokepoints on the Trail, ensuring that US bomb runs were not cost-free. Later, batteries of Soviet surface-to air missiles (SAM) were added, greatly increasing Air Force fixed-wing losses. In the course of the separate war over the Trail thousands of NVA trucks were destroyed and heavy casualties sustained, while the US lost 500 planes with their air crews.
Air attacks on the Trail were most effective against bridges over the many rivers that had to be crossed. Engineering crews could put pontoon bridges in place relatively quickly, but they too would be knocked out the next day by prowling Phantoms. For this special challenge to Trail traffic, combat engineers came up with a couple of workable, low-tech solutions. The first was a cable bridge, but one without a roadway. Two strong cables would be strung across a river invisible from the air at water level a truck-width apart. When a truck convoy arrived at a crossing, the tires were removed, the rims aligned on the cables, and the trucks driven across, and refitted with tires on the opposite bank.
This bridging technique worked well, but was time-consuming, so another equally simple but even more amazing solution found. A pontoon structure called a ‘peek-a-boo’ bridge was rigged out of the inner tubes of truck tires, and powerful pneumatic pumps were hidden on each side of a waterway. When not in use, the bridge would be concealed by deflating the tubes and letting the structure sink and float beneath the water’s surface. Upon arrival of the trucks, the pneumatic pump would inflate the tubes, the bridge would emerge from the depths, and the convoy would pass over it.
Road repair from bomb damage, a constant, was essentially a no-tech job. Without the availability of bulldozers, the largely female road crews posted along the Trail filled bomb craters overnight with just picks and shovels. Occasionally, when a stretch of trail was being repeatedly targeted, the engineers would cut an alternate route below the triple canopy jungle, thus hiding it from the air. Often this involved cutting down trees and clearing brush, but when the NVA realized that their hi-tech adversary had airborne means for detecting foliage decay, they changed tactics. Trees and bushes were instead carefully dug up and transplanted elsewhere, an elementary gardening procedure.
However, the NVA’s most primitive but effective countermeasure – and a devilishly clever and amusing one too – was its diversionary response to the vaunted airborne people sniffers. Pots of buffalo urine were hung in the trees in areas away from the Trail causing the planes to release their munitions harmlessly on empty stretches of jungle. Still, the relentless air attacks never ceased.
After the Communist Tet Offensive of ’68, Creighton Abrams replaced General Westmoreland (Westy) as overall US commander and inherited not only a grinding ground war, but also the shadowy, hotly contested air war over the Trail. The interdiction campaign remained his major preoccupation right up to the final days of active US involvement in the Vietnam War late ’72. Transcripts from Abrams’ regular briefings clearly indicate that in spite of the best efforts of a superpower, interdiction had remained a frustrating and elusive objective. In late ’70, his deputy commander for air operations conceded that the scope and effectiveness of the Trail had increased:
          Over the past year we’ve seen a continual increase
          in the road network, the trails, the alternate route
          structure … which gave the enemy many options
          in terms of moving his equipment and supplies ….

          [The NVA’s dispersal of their trucks] has been
          accomplished beautifully, they move at night, they
          move at regular predetermined times, they move to
          one place, stay and hide, unload, pick up another
          truck and move on down, hiding in the [jungle]
          canopy, it’s just an extremely difficult problem.**
As American involvement in the war was winding down 18 months later in ‘72, it was evident that NVA infiltration had trumped US interdiction. As a frustrated General Abrams exclaimed to his staff: “it’s a more or less continuous thing – you know, they just keep a-coming.”***
Years after in post-mortems on the war, a senior North Vietnamese officer conceded that US air attacks, especially Spooky’s saturation strafing, had hurt them badly, while Westy’s deputy stated flatly in an interview that the fact that the  “Ho Chi Minh Trail was never closed” was a major factor in the failure of the US mission in Southeast Asia.****
*J Zumwalt, Bare Feet, Iron Will (2010), 232
**L Sorley, ed, Vietnam Chronicles: The Abrams Tapes, 1968-1972 (2004), 495
***Ibid, 818
****Quoted in R McNamara, In Retrospect (1995), 212