Contingent of Dutch Dirty Dozen, plus one Yank,
dressed in snow smocks and assembled for recon patrol; author
is second from right.
. . .Foreign
volunteers who fought for Croatia in her struggle against Serbian
aggression were known as "Internationals." What follows
is an account of the misadventures of one Yankee International,
myself. Noms de guerre have been employed to protect the innocent,
the guilty and the downright silly.
. . .In the fall
of 1991, I linked up with a rather mysterious Dutch organization
I'll call NKW (its acronym) that was recruiting men to fight for
Croatia. After hearing about them on Cable News Network. I had
made a few phone calls and had gotten accepted. So I packed up
the tools of the trade and headed for the airport.
. . .Why did this 'Nam vet want to
return to battle, you ask? Well, the initiated will understand.
As for the "Where have all the flowers gone?" crowd,
they don't care for my sort and the feeling is entirely mutual.
I don't give a cosmic damn if they like me or not.
. . .Anyhow, I didn't see much chance
of landing a straight gig just then. Times were tough in New Jersey
— the Mafia was laying off judges while pimps were driving
. . .I was met at the Amsterdam airport
by NKW organizers. A few days later, two Dutch volunteers and
I departed for Croatia in a van. The next evening we arrived in
Zagreb about midnight and were met by two likely looking fellows
decked out in camouflage, berets and combloc sidearms.
. . .One was Croatian and the other
was the Dutch combat leader of the NKW, "Wild Bill."
Swaggering up to me gunfighter-style, Wild Bill asked in English,
"Are you the American?"
. . ."Yup," I replied.
. . ."Are you a Vietnam veteran?"
. . ."Yup," I replied again
with my usual hillbilly eloquence.
. . .Wild Bill's eyes beamed up to
the size of searchlights. He commenced to wave his arms about
with all the grace of a monkey fornicating a football and yelling,
"I don't want no cowboys or Rambos in my outfit — just
normal guys! No cowboys — no Rambos! No cowboys —
. . .Being a Vietnam veteran, I’m
accustomed to this sort of reaction. Thanks to the baloney sandwiches
served up by Hollywood, we've gained a reputation that would make
the Waffen SS puke.
. . .Wild Bill and the Croat un-assed
an old black Opel with upwards of a dozen bullet holes in its
body and windshield courtesy of the Yugo army — and we followed
them in the van to a shabby bar; a real back-to-the-wall merc
hangout, where we upended a few local brews. Yup, I was home.
. . .The Croat's name was Evisa.
As scout and interpreter for the Dutch group. Evisa was in his
early 30s and spoke a little broken English. Physically he looked
rather wimpy, like a waiter in a cheap Italian restaurant. His
eyes, however, were the real clue to what kind of guy he was.
They radiated courage, humble self-confidence, depth of character
and open, unfeigned friendliness toward all — a depth of
character than can only come from countless generations of peasant
ancestors. There wasn't an ounce of swagger or bullshit in him,
as opposed to Wild Bill. Of all the guys I bumped into in Croatia,
I came to respect Evisa the most both as a man and as a soldier.
. . .Later I was to find out that
Evisa's parents had been "ethnically cleansed" by the
Chetniks (Serb irregulars). The Chetniks
cut the old folks' throats, threw the bodies into the couple's
own house and Zippoed it up — charming fellows! Needless
to say, this gave Evisa something of an attitude problem.
. . .We soon left the bar for Evisa's
house, where his wife graciously served us cold cuts with liquor
that would rot the hide off a buffalo. It was rakija,
the piss-colored national drink made from plums, of which I was
to become uncommonly fond.
. . .The next morning we set off
for Perusic, arriving about midnight. We pulled up to a large
iron gate outside a cluster of barracks surrounded by a chain
link fence. The Perusic military base was to be my home for the
next three months. Did I say home? "Lunatic asylum"
would be more like it — except the inmates were running
the joint. They all had assault rifles and were usually roaring
drunk in the bargain. I never saw any rust on the Dutchies: they
were always well-oiled.
. . .We entered one of the barracks
and a squad of young Dutch guys in camo greeted us with smiles,
backslaps and bottles of rotgut brandy. My immediate impression:
I had been time-warped into some Waffen SS unit. Mostly they were
blue-eyed blondes, and the constant jabbering in Dutch sounded
German to me.
. . .The base itself was about two
blocks long. Most buildings had broken windows and were pockmarked
with bullet holes acquired at the start of the war, when the Croats
hosed them with small-arms fire from the cemetery, located most
symbolically across the street. The Yugo army garrison (about
60 soldiers) had thrown their gats down and their hands up. When
the Yugo army commander realized he had surrendered to only 20
ragged Croats armed mostly with homemade shotguns, he committed
suicide with his pistol. I assure you, gentle reader, that even
if I'd been caught by a farmer in his sheep pen with my pants
down, I would not have been that embarrassed.
. . .Perusic was a one-horse town,
or rather had been 'til some contemptible swine ate the horse.
The population was around 2,000 and the main drag was three blocks
long — the kind of place where they roll up the sidewalks
at sunset. About half of the people had fled; some shops were
open and some boarded up. Most buildings had gaping holes half-clogged
with blown snow — these gave Perusic the depressing aspect
of a mini-Stalingrad.
On front near Gospic, a Croat "regular" mans Yugoslav
82mm M60 recoilless gun. Enemy Serb tanks are approximately
2 km away.
. . .The Serbs
were a few klicks away across no-man's-land, just on the other
side of a range of low, snow-covered hills to the east. Most were
lightly armed Chetniks, Serbs who lived in Croatia and had formed
themselves into guerrilla bands at the war's outbreak. The rest
were regular Yugo-army studs equipped with the usual heavy weapons:
tanks, arty and other cheerful stuff. These were punctual fellows
who usually lobbed a few gratuitous rounds into the base and into
Perusic itself at 1600 sharp. The Croats would crank the air raid
siren up to a shriek. We simply hunkered in the barracks when
shelled. The walls were made of reinforced concrete several inches
thick and would stop anything except direct hits.
Windmill Whackos Roll Call
. . .I was the
only non-Dutch citizen among the Dutch volunteers, who were employed
primarily as a recon group. Guys came and went, but the average
strength of the 1st Dutch Volunteers (the unit's official name)
was about a dozen. They all spoke English and were as jolly a
crew of pirates as ever set sail. If you think of the Dutch as
cute and cuddly little guys, well ... read on. You would be well-advised
to put them right at the top of your list of those not to be fucked
with. Most would rather hear a bayoneted Serb scream than a pretty
girl sing. All, with the exception of Crazy Joe were Dutch army
vets. They were:
. . .Wild Bill:
The field commander of the 1st Dutch. Wild Bill had been an NCO
in the Dutch special forces, but was encouraged to leave due to
a drinking problem. He was a crack shot, a born combat leader
and a natural athlete. He was also a stone killer and a gun for
hire who didn't give a rat's ass who the enemy was, as long as
there were plenty of 'em. His resume also included desertion from
the French Foreign Legion, but not before he'd seen some action
in Africa where he bagged 17 restless natives, mostly just for
target practice. If you don't like my opinion of Wild Bill, try
the Chetniks' on for size: They buried their dead and put a price
on his head.
. . .Brains:
The second-in-command of the 1st Dutch and a former NCO in the
Dutch army. A good soldier whose only social transgression was
constantly plotting illegal get-rich-quick schemes, Keep an eye
on this shifty character: It's dollars to doughnuts that one day
you'll see his mug on the front page of every Dutch newspaper
... if they catch him.
. . .Stormtrooper:
A skinhead bully boy fresh out of the slammer for bank robbery.
Basically an alimentary canal with a foghorn mouth at one end
and all the instincts of a sewer rat. He made no secret of his
politics, which were three goose steps to the right of Ernst Rohm,
and was forever bragging about his three uncles who had fought
for the Nazis on the Russian front.
The rumor mill also had it he was hiding out from some unamused
Amsterdam dope dealers he had ripped off at gunpoint. Not the
sort of chap you'd invite to high tea with the queen, but a dead
shot with an RPG and thus a handy ace in the hole worth tolerating.
. . .Preacher:
A Moluccan studying to be a monk, currently AWOL from his monastery.
Obviously not playing with a full deck — admitted to me
once that he was a virgin. I'm not generally partial to four-eyed
Bible thumpers, but he was a good soldier who had wasted two Serbs.
Maybe that was his way of sending souls to God via the fast lane;
. . .Joker:
A clever, muscular fel1ow and self-admitted murderer, steroid
popper, burglar, dope peddler, speed freak, con man, — black
marketeer, arsonist, barroom brawler, counterfeiter, paperhanger,
vandal and compulsive thief with a history of assaulting police
officers. Otherwise, he was a sweet guy.
. . .Knuckles:
Ex-French Foreign Legion; did a tour with the South African police.
A buddy of mine, even if he did seem to be eternally on his way
to the Hatter's for tea. He was ejected from the 1st Dutch for
excessive fighting and drinking. Later,
he drifted down to Bosnia and took an AK round through the neck.
. . .Tripper:
A mellow hippie, hopelessly adrift somewhere in space/time. He
was shot through an arm and leg in a firefight, but came back
for more. Always ready for mischief, he was a tight buddy of mine.
. . .Romeo:
A sulky malingerer whose only interests were soccer and composing
passionate love letters to lady friends back in Tulip country.
Another buddy of mine, he had to leave to stand trial in Holland
for stabbing an Arab who rudely refused to yield his seat on a
train to Romeo. (Would some kind person please send this guy the
latest edition of Miss Manners' etiquette handbook.)
. . .Mad
Max: An industrial-strength maniac with the personality
of a hyena on laughing gas. On the lam for car theft in Holland
and rumored to have murdered a Croat in Dubrovnik. Another deserter
from the Frog Foreign Legion — didn't like the food. Claimed
to have worked as a hit-person for the Cali nose-candy cartel
and for the Neapolitan Mafia, and also to have fought for the
Kurds in Iraq. You could always tel1 when he was lying —
his lips were moving. We never did find out the real name of this
mysterious drifter, because he didn't have a passport or any sort
of ID. He entered Croatia by cutting his way through a chain-link
border fence by night. He was thrown in the Klaverin
(military jail) for threatening me with a pistol while smoking
locoweed. That's what comes of packing your pipe too tight, I
suppose. We settled our differences one rakija-soaked night and
became blood brothers with the assistance of an AK bayonet.
. . .Crazy Joe:
He was a man who didn't know the meaning of the word fear. Unfortunately,
he didn't know the meaning of much of anything. Crazy Joe was
the village idiot of the 1st Dutch, who had been rejected by the
Dutch army due to a low mental score. If his IQ had been one point
lower, we would have had to stick this loser in a pot and water
him twice a day.
. . .Sir Lunch-A-Lot:
A 250-pound blimp reportedly on the run from the law for beating
a guy half to death. He collapsed on his first patrol, was sent
to a hospital and was never seen again.
. . .Chugalug:
A huge linebacker of a fel1ow, our demo man and a non-stop alcoholic.
Needless to say, prudent soldiers took cover when he defused booby
traps with his alcohol-shaky hands. A decent guy when (rarely)
sober. He was expelled for going AWOL, threatening to blow up
a disco with a hand grenade and for being a rummy.
. . .Snake:
A scowling psychopath; a former mental hospital inmate and outlaw
biker with a broken nose. We became mortal enemies and I hung
the sucker out to dry. I reckon he'l1 think twice before he messes
with any Yanks again.
. . .Hans:
A bored Dutch businessman who "just wanted to see what war
was like." The only Dutchie not running from the law, or
mentally bent, downright psychopathic, dim-witted, or actively
pursuing a criminal career; also, the only Dutchie whose conduct
did not necessitate an assumed name to avoid embarrassing his
kin. The other Dutchies, given a choice, would rather strangle
a chicken than eat an ice-cream cone. How he got past the NKW
selection process is a mystery to me.
. . .The Yank:
Brain-damaged 173rd Airborne vet; ex-Africa merc; the ultimate
Rambo; defender of Western Civilization; upholder of truth, justice
and the American way; blah, blah, etc., etc. — you get the
. . .A neat cocktail, eh? I don't
know if these mixed nuts scared the Chetniks or not, but they
damn sure scared me.
Through The Minefield
. . .As I noted
earlier, the 1st Dutch was employed primarily as a recon unit;
we ran a patrol into no-man's-land maybe every three days, searching
for snipers, mapping areas, etc. Those of us not AWOL, drunk or
in the Klaverin would sardine ourselves into a Land-Rover, drive
to the front and kick off our diddybop by picking our way through
the minefield in front of the Croat bunker line, tiptoe through
. . .The terrain comprised snow-covered
hills much like America's East Coast, if you subtract a few trees
and add a few boulders. We moved through no-man's-land in single
file, on the alert for ambushes, enemy patrols, trip wires and
all the other nasty surprises that can ruin a soldier's day. Often
as not, our mission was to creep up to the Serb lines and mark
their bunker locations on a map.
Burned-out buildings are part of devastation in the city of
Gospic, about 20 klicks from Perusic.
. . .The Dutch had
been in several firefights with the Serbs before I arrived, By
then, they had killed seven Serbs while sustaining only one wounded
themselves — a score they can brag on at any water hole
where soldiers gather to bend elbows. I was only fired at twice
during my 90-day "Tour of Rakija" with the 1st Dutch:
once when we were sniped at without effect. and again when we
attempted to make a surprise raid on the Serb lines. The surprise
was entirely on us — we had to skedaddle with MG rounds
snapping the tree branches over our heads. Such is war.
. . .None of the Dutch left after
those initial firefights, even though they were eligible to as
foreign volunteers. I think this impressed me more than anything
about the Dutchies. Many wannabe Rambos leg it home to Mama after
they get their cherry popped in a real firefight and find out
it ain't quite as antiseptic as the Hollywood version. Again,
the initiated know. These gutsy Dutch guys went back for more,
and I salute 'em for it.
. . .The conduct of the 1st Dutch
in the field was damn good. I'd rate 'em a B-plus, maybe even
an A-minus, allowing a wink or two at some of their tactical indiscretions.
. . .Their conduct off duty was another
matter — certainly not best described as "Onward Christian
Soldiers" — "Animal House" would be right
on the money. Now, I'm a member of the David Hackworth school
of military philosophy, which realistically expects soldiers to
act as soldiers, not altar boys. The Dutchies, however, would
give the late Pancho Villa and his banditos a run for
Days Without Beginning
... Or End
. . .A typical day
had no beginning or end that you could focus on, as the Dutch,
ever a casual lot, did not believe in reveille, duty rosters,
barracks police, lights out, inspections or any such silly chickenshit.
They woke whenever the previous night's hangover faded, generally
. . .The Dutchies always had a hot
breakfast — coffee and a cigarette — followed by nothing
until lunch in the mess hall at 1300. Drinking commenced immediately
afterward. Beer was the juice of choice, but brandy or rakija
were more common as they packed more bang for the dinar
and were easier to smuggle past the guard at the gate.
. . .Afternoons generally consisted
of runs to the liquor store to replenish our severely taxed rakija
supply, the usual GI bull sessions, or playing pranks on Crazy
Joe. The favorite was loosening the joints on his bunk so it collapsed
when the oxygen waster sat on it. Other torments included packing
his cigarettes with match heads and gunpowder so they exploded;
super-gluing his enormous "Rambo survival" knife in
its sheath; tying his socks in knots; emptying out his foot powder
and replacing it with flour; smearing spit on the lens of his
camera to ruin his pictures; disassembling his G3 and hiding the
parts, or sending him off on wild goose chases — like having
him to report to the Croatian base commander to be measured for
a body bag.
. . .I used to think every living
creature had a purpose in the grand scheme of things. Misers,
for example, make splendid ancestors, while lions are the solution
to Christians. The reason for Crazy Joe's existence, however,
would baffle a Zen master.
. . .After dinner at 1800, serious
drinking commenced and there was a party every night. Anything
could happen and usually did.
. . .One event designed to sharpen
soldierly skills was drawing a nude lady on a door and commencing
fire with everything from bayonets to pistols, with points awarded
for hitting various anatomical features. Disassembling claymores
and constructing booby traps to kill the Croatian commander were
popular competitions. Smashing chairs and such was always good
for a giggle; once we had to evacuate the building when Joker
set the Christmas tree on fire and we were smoked out.
. . .Sometimes the girls from the
mess hall would drop by the Dutch barracks to party and often
as not ran out shrieking, half-disrobed. These festivities were
always accompanied by rock 'n' roll thundering from the cassette
player at max volume. Wrestling matches were another favored diversion.
Bunks were demolished and the ammo locker often overturned, with
hand grenades rolling out on the floor as the enthusiastic grapplers
gyrated about the room.
. . .At other times we'd turn the
radio to the Serb frequency and invite them over for a homosexual
orgy, complete with graphic descriptions of the delights they
would encounter. All we ever got by way of reply was the repeated
"fuck you" from our friends on the other side of the
hills. Empty rakija bottles were routinely smashed against the
walls. When sufficiently schnockered, the Dutchies pried open
MG cartridges and grenades and flashed off the powder/semtex to
get their jollies. Puking was not uncommon and only considered
faux pas if you hit somebody's bunk.
Like I noted, we were a jolly bunch and I think you get the picture.
At the firing range, Dutchies demonstrate comradely feelings
toward their Yankee buddy by using a crude drawing of author
as a target, with points for hitting his CIB and jump wings.
Sniper rifle was taken from Serb no longer in need of it,
due to terminal case of Dutch lead poisoning.
. . .Anything not
embedded in concrete, lashed down with log chains, or guarded
by rabid pit bulls was judged abandoned property by the frisky
Dutchies and was promptly stolen if fancied or smashed if not.
Items liberated by the 1st Dutch included one dog, at least two
pistols, several kilograms of semtex, detonators beyond counting,
a quantity of "spare" parts from automobiles, petrol
siphoned from Croatian POVs, upwards of three dozen hand grenades,
some claymores. sundry "souvenirs" from abandoned houses
and several tasty chickens.
. . .Off-base R&R
featured such bottom-feeding diversions as hosing down abandoned
cars with AKs, fishing with hand grenades, bar fighting, firing
gats into the air bandito style, or pursuing the local jailbait
disco ladies. What the Dutchies went for in the way of horizontal
amusements I can only guess at, but I'm certain it would put a
Turkish prison to shame.
. . .The most damnable thing about
the merry boys from Windmill Land was their inability to clear
a weapon without discharging it. Every fornicating time it went
the same nightmare way. Here, for your edification, is the Dutch
army drill for unloading a weapon; (1) point gat any which way,
sometimes at the ceiling, sometimes not; (2) forget to remove
magazine; (3) pull charging handle back to eject chambered round;
(4) allow charging handle to fly forward, chambering a round from
magazine: (5) dry-fire weapon to uncock it.
. . .What's that you say? There's
a small glitch with step 2? You got it, Sherlock — the firing
pin encounters a seated round, not an empty chamber, resulting
in Kaboom! and yet another hole in the
ceiling. I stopped counting the holes when the score exceeded
a dozen and only one overhead light remained unbroken. Preacher,
Wild Bill, Chugalug, Crazy Joe, Joker and Stormtrooper all discharged
their weapons in this manner, some of them multiple times. We
had holes from G3s. AKs, various pistols, Scorpions, and a World
War II-era German submachine gun. The sight of one of 'em taking
a round out of the 90mm antitank bazooka was enough to send me
into cardiac arrest. Never a dull moment with the wooden shoe
. . .The 1st Dutch had three friendly-fire
casualties, two of them minor affairs from lead ricocheting off
the ceiling. The third and most serious one bears relating in
detail. Wild Bill, our fearless leader, had hosed down a Serb
officer in an ambush and claimed his Scorpion pistol. That Scorpion
was his pride and joy; he carried the silly toy at all times.
Once he riddled his wall locker while trying to unload it, drunk
on rakija. But Wild Bill was to surpass even this act of shooting-iron
. . .One fine evening the entire
group was invited to dinner at the house of a prominent local
Croatian. It was indeed a feast. I'm proud to testify that the
boys were on their best behavior — although several eyed
the silverware, none actually pocketed any ... I think.
. . .We noisily cleared the table
of everything edible in record time, impressing our wide-eyed
host with our capacity if not with our upbringing. Then, over
cigarettes and fine Croatian wine, we settled back to telling
war stories punctuated by belches. Wild Bill, fearing Chetnik
assassins that I fear were entirely imaginary, was packing his
damn Scorpion. Not having a proper holster, he "secured"
it by sitting on it — with a round chambered and the safety
. . .Murphy's Law prevailed. He (or
Mad Max sitting next to him) reached down to adjust his chair,
touched the trigger and — Kabang! The
round went through Wild Bill's leg and embedded itself in the
wall about a foot from me, not far from where the children of
our hosts were playing some rug-rat games. At normal dinner parties,
jackets and ties are proper attire. If you invite the Dutch Dirty
Dozen, flak jackets are recommended.
. . .As we were packing Wild Bill
off to the hospital, Steff, the Croatian base commander, arrived
and confiscated the Scorpion (Thank God!). Steff was a teetotaler,
and flinty as a bank examiner. .He
was long since fed up with the drunken antics of the Dutch bunch,
and this latest screw-up ultimately resulted in our expulsion
from Perusic. Wild Bill got his sweaty hands on another pistol
while in the hospital and managed to accidentally discharge it
as well. Upon release, he and a Croatian lady friend set up light
housekeeping in a private room in our barracks — another
act reflective of the delightful informality of the Dutch army,
but frowned upon by the conservative Croatians.
. . .We were all lower than whale
shit in Steff's opinion, so Wild Bill called a meeting that all
might speak their minds, with the object of getting things back
on the rails. I straightaway accused Snake of running semtex back
to Holland. He said damn straight he was, adding he was selling
it to some gentlemen acquaintances who were gainfully employed
in the bank robbery trade. Why risk your life for a soldier's
pay, Snake reasoned, when you could make big bucks without breaking
. . .What precisely, I wondered,
did this psycho have in mind? Maybe a storefront in Amsterdam
with a huge neon sign: "Snake's Discount Bomb Outlet —
Terrorists Welcome — Major Credit Cards Honored." In
any case, Snake wasn't bright enough to pull it off, so it could
be hard time for all of us as a result, not that I cared a fig
about the Dutch misfits.
. . .Enough! I said it was criminal,
plain and simple, adding that Snake should be ejected right then
and there. We got into a shouting contest. The creep imagined
that he was at least three beaks up in the pecking order from
me and couldn't believe that I was standing up to him, as he could
certainly take me apart, no problem. I resolved to gun him down
the first firefight we got into, Vietnam-style. He was doubtless
planning the same; I could read it in the paranoid bastard's eyes.
. . .Well, the group resolved to
clean up its act, but it was too late by a day's march. Soon after
this we got a subtle hint that we were no longer welcome when
someone hosed our barracks with AK fire one night. Some said it
was Steff. In any case, the next day Steff gave us 48 hours to
clear out of the base.
. . .While we were packing, Snake
went out of his way to provoke me into punching it out. I declined
and decided a little backstabbing was in order. What's that, you
say? It's not manly?! Damn straight it ain't, Sherlock; my mama
didn't raise no fool. Mess with me and I'll sneak around at midnight
and poison your dog, One of the guys told me he saw Snake stuffing
14 hand grenades into his car — jackpot! Just what I was
. . .Most of the guys figured the
party was over and returned to Holland. I headed for Zagreb to
request transfer to another unit. When I got there, I presented
myself at the German Embassy and passed the wide-eyed krauts a
note detailing Snake's innovative export business, along with
his car's license plate number. I was hoping he'd be caught at
the German border, as opposed to liberal Holland.
. . .I was on a roll. Not only had
I escaped the Dutch nut-cases, but I was off to new faces and
new adventures. I headed for a bar where the Internationals hung
out and spotted a squad of redcoats.
. . ."Mind if I join y'all?"
. . ."Bugger off, Yank."
. . ."I'll buy a round."
. . ."Pull up a chair, mate.
Always happy to bend an elbow with a bloody colonial."
. . .I spent the next two months
with the 83rd Battalion at Vinkovci, mostly hanging out with the
Brit Internationals. They train 'em right in 'Er Royal Majesty's
forces, they do, and I never saw any of the redcoats fire his
weapon unless he intended to.
. . .Later, word came down the grapevine
that my dear friend Snake had been arrested in Holland with two
pistols and several frags in his possession. Adios
amigo, and have fun doing the jailhouse rock.
. . .All in all, I'm proud to have
been with the 1st Dutch, and count them all, with the obvious
exception of the entrepreneurial Mr. Snake, as my friends and
comrades arms. Certainly they weren't the sort of fellows I'd
recommend anyone to wash their canary. They deserved to be expelled
and were. Still, one can't help but admire their undeniable courage
and zest for adventure.
. . .There has been an attempt by
elements of the Dutch press to vilify them with the usual shoveling
of manure familiar to 'Nam vets. The Dutch, celebrated for their
propensity for efficient self-indulgence, would be well-advised
to honor these heroes whose concept of the purpose of life extended
beyond peddling a bicycle to the nearest orgy.
. . .As for myself, I'm back in Joisey
and pondering new adventures. I'm considering building a raft
and sailing across the Pacific or looking for work as a combat
photojournalist. Anyone interested in this scheme or any other
crackpot idea is encouraged to write me, care of SOF. Kindly note
that any letters containing felonious plans will be promptly forwarded
to the FBI. See ya' in Saigon.
. . .Tom
Chittum is a Vietnam veteran seeking a publisher for his "Great
American" Vietnam novel.
. . .SOF
Editor's Note: Croatia has officially abolished the
"International Brigade" and volunteers are no longer
actively being sought.