Free Deros Vietnam by Doug Bradley

he’s supposed to have had something like a hundred and fifty kills in the war.”
    The assemblage doubled over in hysterics. Someone started singing “smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo.”
    Then it was Harry Carter’s turn. New to Vietnam, the baby-faced Carter was still intimidated by his surroundings, afraid of the danger that lurked outside the Continental Palace’s walls. As a press corps virgin, Carter hadn’t cultivated any sources, so he didn’t have much in the way of gossip, stories, or juicy tidbits to share. He’d already drunk too much, lost his ID, and made a clumsy pass at one of The Shelf’s beautiful bar girls, but it was his turn, and take it he would.
    Weaving as he stood, Carter reached inside his sport coat pocket for the only weapon he had—a copy of a press release he’d been handed a few hours ago by a wiry Vietnamese with a broad smile and a French affect. Trembling, Carter held the single sheet of paper aloft, his hands like pliers gripping a nail. Even as he stumbled over the Vietnamese words in the release, there was no doubt about the message—the Buddhist monks of Xa Loi intended to resume self-immolation immediately unless the United States withdrew support from the corrupt regime of South Vietnam’s President Nguyen Van Thieu.
    â€œParty pooper,” someone hollered. Carter turned crimson. Quickly, the two old hands, Van Slyke and Jones, came to his rescue.
    â€œLet me see that.” Van Slyke walked over and grabbed the release. Jones read over his shoulder.
    â€œHow many of you got one of these?” he asked, holding up the sheet of paper. No other hands went up.
    â€œWho put it out?” a voice from the rear asked. Van Slyke glanced at the sheet. “Ah so, ‘tis our old friends from the Pagoda.” He smiled a big smile.
    â€œYou’re not going to believe this,” he added, handing the release to Jones, “but it specifically mentions quote poet, spiritualist and pacifist Allen Ginsberg as a source of encouragement.”
    â€œAllen Ginsberg?” Jones shook his head.
    â€œThat fucking fairy,” growled a voice near the bar.
    â€œBeatnik.”
    â€œHippie.”
    â€œPansy.”
    â€œI saw the best minds of my generation .…”
    Jones was waving his arms. “Hold it a minute. Nobody knows better than we the truth in the adage about the lessons of history repeating themselves.” Low murmurs and rumbling voices.
    â€œWhat’s Allen Ginsberg got to do with history or with Vietnam?” Carter asked.
    Jones winked at Van Slyke. He took a deep breath, removed his glasses and raised his hands as if anointing the crowd.
    â€œOnce upon a wayward war,” Jones intoned in his best Walter Cronkite voice, “Allen Ginsberg graced these friendly confines, stood where we are standing, walked a mile in our shoes, strove with every ounce of fiber in his body to …”
    â€œDiddle a Buddhist monk!”
    â€œEnough already,” shouted Cutler, one of the old hands from UPI. “My drink’s getting warm and I’ve got a lady friend waiting. Cut to the chase, for fuck sake.”
    Unperturbed, Jones kept right on talking, “Listen, what we all should know about that time is that it was a lot like this time, which is maybe the way Vietnamese history has always worked.”
    The Shelf was momentarily shrouded in smoke and silence.
    â€œIn the early 1960s, like today,” Jones continued, “you had a corrupt South Vietnamese President who was a devout Catholic clamping down on a country that was home to a shitload of Buddhists. The PR professionals will confirm how headlines like ‘Buddhist Monk Barbecue in Saigon’ weren’t the best way to generate support for the U.S. mission in Southeast Asia. And …”
    Like a practiced vaudevillian, Jones repeated the conjunction.
    â€œAnd …that’s when our own