New Vietnam War Movie Based on Non-Fiction Book by HBO

The July 17th Daily Variety announced HBO Films is developing a movie based on former CIA agent Frank Snepp's 1999 non-fiction book IRREPARABLE HARM: A FIRSTHAND ACCOUNT OF HOW ONE AGENT TOOK ON THE AGENCY IN AN EPIC BATTLER OVER FREE SPEECH.

This is a follow-up to his 1977 non-fiction book DECENT INTERVAL: AN INSIDER'S ACCCOUNT OF SAIGON'S INDECENT END, TOLD BY THE CIA'S CHIEF STRATEGY ANALYST IN VIETNAM.

Here's the IRREPARABLE HARM review by John J. Miller (no relation) on the book's Amazon page (boldface mine):

Former CIA spook Frank Snepp was one of the last Americans lifted off the U.S. embassy in Saigon in 1975, at the tail end of the Vietnam War. In the days leading up to that fateful moment, he complained that the United States needed to do more to protect its intelligence assets, most of whom were left behind.

He ultimately lost the case, plus his money and the right to publish anything about the CIA without first receiving authorization. Irreparable Harm -- which has received CIA clearance -- captures all the twists and turns of Snepp's legal fight …

I find it interesting that the HBO movie will be about the legal battle against a large bureaucracy - how many such movies have we seen? - rather than about the actual story: the U.S.'s betrayal of its South Vietnamese intelligence assets.

In intelligence lingo intelligence assets means people - people with families, people who trusted you at great risk to their own lives and the lives of their families. And we left those people behind to face almost-certain death at the hands of the North Vietnamese.

How many years from now might some former CIA agent write a similar story about leaving behind our intelligence assets in Iraq and Afghanistan - to face almost-certain death?

Syndicated from www.mrslieutenant.blogspot.com

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U.S. Military Personnel Who Served 1972-1984 Re-Joins in 2007

Here's a guest post from Specialist Neil Gussman - he has quite an interesting story to tell about his military service. (When he's not training with the Army National Guard, he writes about the history of chemistry at Chemical Heritage Foundation, a museum and library of the history of chemistry and early science located in Center City Philadelphia.) And to read more of his writing, check out his blog at http://armynow.blogspot.com:

When I first enlisted in the Air Force in January of 1972, General David Petraeus was a sophomore at West Point. When he threw his hat in the air at graduation in 1974, I was a sergeant recovering from being blinded by shrapnel in a missile testing accident at Hill Air Force Base, Utah.

I got out of the Air Force that year, joined the Army the following year and served as a tank commander in Germany from 1976 to 1979. Our alert area was the Fulda Gap, right where the prophet of all things NATO, Tom Clancy, said World War Three would begin.

World War Three didn't happen on my watch, so I got out and went to college, and served in a reserve tank unit in Reading, Pennsylvania, until 1984. I got out for good then (I thought.) and got a job writing ad copy.

Last August, I re-enlisted after 23 years as a civilian. Writing this post I am 55 years old and have 196 days and a wake-up until my unit deploys to Iraq.

In the past year, a lot of people asked me why I joined. But the more fun question to answer is what is different about serving then and now. I can feel myself smile every time I answer that question.

What's different? I grew up in Boston. The difference is like being a Red Sox fan in the 1970s and being a Red Sox fan now. In fact joining now was the difference between playing for the 1972 Patriots (3-11) and the 2007 team (16-0).

In the mid-1970s, the sergeants who really had their shit together were in their late 20s. They were young, tough, motivated and were not combat veterans. The worst senior NCOs (not all, but a way more than there should have been) had combat patches on their right sleeves and had picked up a serious dope smoking or drinking habit in Vietnam.

I am currently in an Army National Guard aviation brigade. In the 1970s the National Guard was notorious for being badly trained. Today's National Guard is part of the total fighting force. On soldier skills, attitude, and combat readiness, my current Guard unit is better than the tank unit I served in on the East-West German border. The men and women with the combat patches on their sleeves in this army are leaders.

The difference certainly continues outside the gate. In the 70s no one wore their uniform home on leave -- at least not those of us who were going home on leave to the Northeastern US. I was proud of my uniform, but the few times I wore that uniform outside the gate, I felt hostility, like I was a foreign soldier in someone else's country.

But today if I stop at Starbucks on the way home from a drill, someone might offer to buy my coffee or the clerk might just give it to me. People walk up to me in restaurants and thank me for my service. I really wish some of the other guys I served with in the 1970s could join up for just a month or two now and get the gratitude they missed out on back when long hair was in style and we were not.

Of course some things are exactly the same:

-- O-Dark-30 is wake up time for everything - even if all we do is stand around.

-- My weapon in 1972, the M-16 rifle. My weapon today, M16A4.

-- All through the 1970s if we went to the field for training, it was crammed in the back of a "Deuce-and a-half" 2 1/2 ton truck. My "ride" at pre-deployment training this year -- the M35A2 Deuce-and-a-half truck.

-- The Army has all records on computer. So when I went to Aberdeen, Maryland, for two weeks of training, the e-mail said "Bring 10 copies of your orders." I couldn't believe it. I brought five. When I got there, I needed more. But all of the processing was in one room. Didn't matter. Every processing station needed a copy of my orders so they could collect all my records in one folder at the end of the day.

But even if I have to make 20 copies of my orders and hand them to a guy who
has a PDF of my orders on a computer right in front of him, I am happy to be
back.

Syndicated from www.mrslieutenant.blogspot.com

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ARMY WIVES Episode 6: Derogatory Reference to Gypsies

In episode 6 of Season 2 of Lifetime Television's ARMY WIVES there was something that bothered me very much: Betty, the owner of the Hump Bar, uses the word "gypped" to mean "cheated."

It amazes me that the writing staff of ARMY WIVES did not realize that this is a derogatory word based on the word Gypsy. The use of this word as a verb is very offensive to Gypsies.

Many people may never have seen real Gypsies. When my husband and I were stationed in Munich, Germany (from September 1970 to May 1972), the tram line ended at our stop. Sometimes Gypsy wagons would camp there overnight.

Yet my image of Gypsies - that is as clear today as it was the moment I saw it - comes from a visit to Dachau, a concentration camp near Munich. Dachau was established in March 1933 as a political prison camp only two months after Hitler became chancellor of Germany. And although many people died in Dachau, it was not a killing camp like Auschwitz and other concentration camps.

But in Dachau there were ovens that burned the bodies of the dead prisoners. Standing in the main camp, I chanced to look towards the gate separating the ovens from the main camp.

Silhouetted against the sky were three Gypsies, a woman and two men. For only a second I was startled - focused as I was on thinking about the six million Jews killed by the Nazis. Then I remembered that Gypsies had been another group designated for extinction by the Third Reich.

Those three Gypsies were doing exactly what my husband and I were doing - visiting Dachau in memory of our people's murdered victims.

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Guest Post from Iraq: People Like Him Don't Do Things Like That

Here is a guest post sent today from Iraq by U.S. Army Staff Sergeant Big Tobacco (check out his own blog at http://big-tobacco.blogspot.com):

"Don't take this the wrong way, but people like me don't do things like that. So why do you?"

I'm confused by this statement. I look across the table at my date. Her face is as perfect as a Russian doll. Her blond hair falls in ringlets around her shoulders. She is so beautiful that I am willing to forgive the question.

Yet the question haunts me. What does that mean?

Why did I release my attachments? Why did I learn to suffer? Why don't I feel special?

And don't do things like what? Serve your country?

I was like her growing up. My father spent four years in the Air Force so that he would not get drafted into the Army for two. Rich Jews from the suburbs didn't join the Army and they certainly didn't join the Infantry. Other people did that.

"Gabora tells me you are in the Army," her mother says when we finally meet. "When do you get out?"

"I'm thinking of making it a career," I say.

She almost chokes on her brisket.

I had a book in my bedroom years ago: "The Story of My Life" by Moshe Dayan. I went to sleep dreaming of thundering across the Sinai in my APC, giving the Egyptians a run for their money. I crossed the Suez Canal and set up a hasty defense as the mortars plunked into the sand. Moshe Dayan, now that was a life. If someone wrote a book about my life, would anyone want to read it?

"Is that a ninja star on your neck?" one of my Army buddies asks while I am in the shower.

"It's a Magan David," I respond.

"So it's like a Jewish cross."

"Close enough," I say.

I progress. I carry that damn Dragon anti-tank missile up and down the hills of Germany, waiting for enemies that never appear. I drive a track through the mud, relishing the feeling I get when all of us come up on line, guns blazing, dismounts screaming, shell casing tumbling to the ground. Someone thinks I am a leader. They give me a fire team.

"Hey, sarn't. Is it true that Jews have sex through a sheet?"

"No," I say. "Years ago, people would hang their tallit out to dry on clothes lines. There is a hole in a tallit for your head. Non-Jews saw the hole and made their own assumptions about its purpose."

"So you just put your head in it when you're going down?"

"Yeah, private, all the time."

I have no menorah so I kick sand over at the pistol range until I turn up nine empty shell casings. I glue them to a paint stick. We turn death into life. We use birthday candles from the dining facility. The three Jews in the battalion light the candles on the second night of Hanukkah.

"Did you see the chaplain's t-shirt?" one of my soldiers asks.

I squint at the paunchy chaplain as he orders a double hamburger in the short-order line at the dining facility. His shirt reads "Repent or Die."

"Repent or Die?" I say. "Should read repent or diet."

I realize that if my religion believed in hell, I'd probably be first in line for the elevator.

Towers fall. I step on a ribcage at Ground Zero and nothing funny comes to mind about that. I have a child and swear that I will keep Moshe Dayan's biography under lock and key. I stand at a bridge wondering how I am supposed to stop a 747 with 10 rounds from a rifle.

New wars start. The deployments come.

I get promoted to squad leader. I live at a checkpoint in the middle of the desert, wondering if something, anything is going to happen. I sit and have hot, sweet tea with the police. My G-d, no wonder everybody here is diabetic, this is like liquid sugar. We discuss music and movies. They tell me how much they would love to come to America and meet a nice American girl. They ask if I am a Christian. I know that the truth would make my squad a target of opportunity.

So I tell them that I follow the Phillies religiously.

I come home.

I break the fast on Yom Kippur with Air Force airmen after patrolling the mud-caked streets of New Orleans. My second son is born. Life returns to normal.

"So you can get out of it, right?" My neighbor asks after I tell him that I will deploy to Iraq. I live in a Jewish neighborhood in New Jersey and am the only soldier in my synagogue.

"No," I respond. "You can't get out of it."

"But you have kids?" he says. "Maybe if you talk to them, they will let you get out of it."

"It doesn't work like that."

Learn to suffer. Release your attachments. You are not special.

Some idiot makes me a platoon sergeant. Now I have 32 men and women. Many of them are poor Puerto Ricans and blacks from places like Camden, Jersey City and Newark. I'm the first Jew many of them have ever met.

They drop pennies on the floor of the barracks when I walk inside. They leave "The Passion of the Christ" on my cot. I watch it. It's a good movie, but "Braveheart" was better. They are joking, pushing me to see how much I can take. It really is endearing. As long as they are making fun of me, they like me. The day they stop making Jewish jokes is the day I better start looking under my cot for grenades.

I live a life of meetings and lists. I am on call by my lieutenant 24 hours a day. Soldiers wake me up in the middle of the night because they have a problem. I get my new rifle and now my body is whole again.

"Is that pork or turkey?" I ask the dining facility worker while pointing at a brown patty of something for breakfast.

"It is uh?" The worker says in broken English. He doesn't understand the question. "It is sausage patty."

"Thanks, dude. I'll just have some eggs."

I sit down to eat my eggs and cereal. My first sergeant comes over to my table and sits down.

"You know, I can get you a kosher meal," he says.

"I'm not special, Top," I say. "You'll never hear me complain. People like me don't do things like that."

Oh, and by the way, the blond at the beginning of this story? I married her.

And I still don't know the answer to that question.

Syndicated from www.mrslieutenant.blogspot.com

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Vietnam War and MRS. LIEUTENANT - Part II
originally posted: June 13, 2008

As explained in the introduction to Part I, the following Amazon review was written by Diana Faillace Von Behren ("reneofc"), an Amazon Top 500 reviewer, and posted here with her permission.

In this, her first Sharon Gold novel, Miller addresses the concerns of this era in American history. Written perhaps as a part memoir - Miller was herself a `Mrs. Lieutenant' - the story is cleverly crafted from the viewpoints of four very different young officers' wives whose lives intersect at Fort Knox in Kentucky during their husbands' AOB training.

Choosing from America's vast melting pot of ethnicities and cultural backgrounds, Miller selects wisely, yet not stereotypically, succeeding in exemplifying that no matter how diverse or varied all women carry similar burdens that formulate their personal definition of `dread.'

As the northern Jewish girl, Sharon comes close to that which I am most familiar. Sharon has guts; she questions; she holds firm to her belief system yet remains fiercely loyal to family and friends even though their sensibilities may vary from hers. Her strength is tangible and it changes those around her.

Pretty head-turning blonde Kim hails from the South -- orphaned as a child and broken by the indifference of a series of foster parents, she clings to the security given to her by her jealous husband who cannot stand the thought of any other man looking at her.

Wendy, a black girl from South Carolina, sheltered by her parents, knows nothing of the rampant prejudice encapsulated within the societal microcosm of Fort Knox. Seeking nothing but acceptance, she cringes when her husband decides to go regular Army instead of `indef vol' like most of his classmates.

Attractive Latino Donna loves her blonde haired blue-eyed husband dearly, but for her, too, the very word `Vietnam' wreaks havoc in her soul, connoting nothing but death, destruction and possible widowhood. The hopes and aspirations of all four women create a semblance of the `every-woman' of that time.

For each of them, the idea of Hell and Vietnam becomes synonymous.

Miller uses an alternating third person voice to delineate her chapters and to flesh out each of the women and their motivations. As each of the women enters `her own private Vietnam', the reader journeys back to that time period, empathizing with the plight of these couples while experiencing a more comprehensive slice of American life from the varying perspectives.

Miller's use of popular songs and clothing labels from the early 70s titillated this reader -again I haven't thought about many of these iconic items for years. Ms. Miller, I thank you not only for the compelling story, but also for refreshing my memory.

Bottom line? Phyllis Zimbler Miller has fashioned her own remembrance of things past in her novel, "Mrs. Lieutenant." Her main characters sing out against the things that disturb them most about life in the early 70s while trying to adjust to being the wives of new second lieutenants and come to terms with their individual desires. As a one time `Mrs. Lieutenant,' Miller's voice rings true in each of her incarnations. The pages fly by in this introspective novel of friendship told beneath the cloud of Vietnam.

Recommended, especially to those children of the 60s and early 70s. For me, this author made this era shake off the dust of the past and again become a viable entity - one that rumbled with turbulence and defined those dark specters of dread that remain with us till this day.

Syndicated from www.mrslieutenant.blogspot.com

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Vietnam War and MRS. LIEUTENANT - Part I
originally posted: June 13, 2008

The following Amazon review was written by Diana Faillace Von Behren ("reneofc"), an Amazon Top 500 reviewer. I asked her permission to post this review on my blog because I love the way she talks about the Vietnam War era. My only changes were to break up long paragraphs into shorter ones. So, without further ado, here's Diana:

When I was a girl in middle school, my homework assignment for one winter evening was to write a Christmas letter to an unknown soldier serving in the jungles of Vietnam.

Vietnam.

At that time, just the word conjured up all sorts of morbid illustrations projected onto the big screen inside my head. I could imagine the intense heat, men, no - mere boys, dressed in fatigues carrying canteens slick with condensation, dog tags dangling from silver chains that jingled perilously as they walked stealthily through foliage that grew thick and frighteningly multitudinous like some big banana leafed forest in a Rousseau painting.

The teacher at the time, forbidden to express her views about a war that perplexed the American public urged her class to be kind - these boys were far from home, from the pleasures we took for granted - rides in red convertibles with the tops down, the smell of crispy fries from the new hot burger stand - McDonald's, the look and fresh scent of a pretty girl swinging her newly straightened hair as she glanced behind her to see just who was watching her in her plaid miniskirt and dark tights. . .

These random mental snapshots typified the American way of life and justified detouring countless American boys from dreams they had dreamed from the time they were old enough to dream.

I wrote my letter; I don't remember the soldier's name. I knew he was nineteen and probably didn't care about what some sixth grader had to say. While I organized my litany of seasonal trivial events in a neat little handwritten format, I could hear the news - the somber voices of Walter Cronkite and Dan Rather recounting the number of American deaths amidst the cacophony of gunfire and chopper blades.

Uncertainty became something familiar - an old friend like the grim reaper - the shadow of his sickle hovering over all our heads like the darkest rain clouds. The persistent feeling of dread penetrated the sanctity of one's inner spirit like the tattoo of the television's images of helicopters, fire and screaming children.

I thought of my cousin, just ten years older than I was - would he be sent away from the huge family dinners of lasagna and laughter? Would men I knew be receiving letters from young adolescents that they didn't even know?

And then on a larger level I wondered if I would be able to sleep at night as the world as I thought it should be would never be the same after all the controversy - the peace marches - draft dodgers running to Canada - the anger over Jane Fonda posing with the Viet Cong - Civil Rights protestors raging in faraway places like Alabama. How would all this effect the dawning of the new era - what the flower children called the `Age of Aquarius?'

Would my soldier ever get my letter? I never received a response, yet somehow that event - that writing of the letter - etched in my memory for all time the sensation of losing control. The boys with low draft numbers were devoid of that sense of managing their lives. ROTC became an option, as being an officer was far better than being an enlisted man.

I hadn't thought about my personal origin for that dark feeling of `dread' in a long time - that is until I picked up Phyllis Zimbler Miller's novel, `Mrs. Lieutenant.'

Read Part II in the next blog post.

Syndicated from www.mrslieutenant.blogspot.com

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Phyllis Zimbler Miller -- a former Mrs. Lieutenant -- is the author of MRS. LIEUTENANT: A SHARON GOLD NOVEL and the co-author of the Jewish holiday book SEASONS FOR CELEBRATION. She has an M.B.A. from The Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania and a B.A. in Journalism from Michigan State University. She has recently written the teen success guide FLIPPING BURGERS AND BEYOND: FIND YOUR OWN PATH THROUGH HIGH SCHOOL, COLLEGE AND LIFE, which is based on her coaching of young people (www.flippingburgersandbeyond.com).