63. Ola and the Sea Wolf (The Eternal Collection)

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Sign in. The Marquis of Elvington, heartbroken to discover the woman he intended to marry has deceived him, decides to leave England and put as many miles as possible between them. Handsome, intelligent and a great favourite at the Court of King William IV and Queen Adelaide, the Marquis is used to the admiration of women and respect of men, so the duplicity of his intended wife strikes him a cruel blow. However, a thick fog makes it impossible for his yacht to leave Dover Harbour, so he is forced to remain on British soil another night. Anger swiftly chasing his sadness, he decides to visit a cheap quayside inn to escape the loneliness he feels and drown his sorrows.

Sitting alone, his mind firmly fixed on how the woman he loved has betrayed him, he vows never to love or trust again. Blaming his act of charity on the vast quantities of brandy he consumed and against his better judgement, he offers to sail her in his yacht, The Sea Wolf, to Calais. Ola is brave, opinionated and daring — as well as possessing the most flaming red hair he has ever seen.

From the moment she steps aboard, decrying men and their dastardly intentions, the Marquis is hard put to keep in step with her wild ideas and brave deeds. In turn admiring her free spirit and amazed at her lack of understanding of the ways of the world, they form a strange truce based on the fact that both vow never to marry.

But Fate has not finished meddling yet and they are soon embroiled in incredible adventures, too fantastic for either of them ever to have imagined, that push their friendship to its very limits. Beyond the Horizon. Barbara Cartland. A Road to Romance. A Beauty Betrayed. Double the Love. Hiding from the Fortune-Hunters. The Unbroken Dream. No Bride, No Wedding.

Crowned by Music. Captured by Love. Wanted - A Bride. Saved by the Duke. The Earl Elopes. The Marquis is Deceived. The Viscount's Revenge. A Heart of Stone. Monday night was 27 sleeping on the beach at North Island in our green utilities; we were invited to dig for clams with our hands if we were hungry and so inclined. Tuesday and Wednesday nights were really cold at Warner Springs. Groups of 7 or 8 were given a half a parachute to keep warm which didn't help much.

The irony escaped no one that we were freezing our asses off to get ready for duty in Vietnam. A healthy amount of homophobia kept us from getting "too close" to each other under the parachute but by dawn we were all nestled like spoons. About 4 am on Friday came the best bowl of oatmeal I have ever had in my life. I think we completed training on Friday, 26 January, - Very normal event.

We were each given 3x5 index card telling us to call Tiger when we reached Tan Son Nhut airport and everthing would be taken care of for us. We all proceeded in different directions and schedules. I went to Norfolk to see my mother about the time the TV news started to talk about something called the Tet Offensive. I reassured her that the news people were blowing this whole thing up out of proportion. Since the TV was still reporting fighting at Tan Son Nhut airport and Cholon areas, I cogently inquired where we would be changing planes.

This plane goes all the way". I took note that I was sitting in lucky seat 13F. We landed at Tan Son Nhut on 8 February late in the afternoon or early evening. Forget dialing Tiger We were told the last convoy of the day for downtown had left but we were welcome to settle onto any concrete of our choosing for the night. Luckily, a few hours later a convoy did show up and we went downtown.

The BOQ 28 bed was all one could hope for. The employees had not returned to work since Tet broke out but we were welcome to make our own sandwiches in the kitchen. We were also assigned watches on the roof and perhaps elsewhere. There was no longer fighting evident in the city but at night from the roof you could still see lots of parachute flares and some tracer rounds in the night on the outskirts of Saigon.

The streets were still pretty empty of traffic. I was invited to a Sunday noon lunch and he would pick me up but I needed to wear my khakis. He took me to The International House commonly called 1-House which is run by the State Department for their own purposes. We walked into a very large room with lights dimmed with many candles burning in candelabras.

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Long tables with white linen, vases with flowers, massive amounts of food in silver serving pieces, a group of 4 or 5 musicians playing soft music. And floating around the room were gossamer visions of lovely Vietnamese ladies wearing their traditional ao-dai dresses. Sure beat ham sandwiches in the BOQ. One briefer said: "You noticed that we gave you lots of web gear. What we now want you to do is go inland. I stayed in the BOQ there for one night.

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An officer brought out a cassette tape recorder with a tape for me to listen to. It seems that located kitty-corner behind the BOQ was a nice house with large lot where the Korean Army general lived in charge of security in that part of Vietnam. During Tet the VC rushed into the house to kill the 29 general but he was not there. The Koreans surrounded the house with the VC inside and completely dismantled the house with small arms fire. The officers in the BOQ just kept on partying and making recordings of the action. As I listened to the tape, the gun fire was amazing but so was the sound of people ordering more drinks while the Beatles "Penny Lane" was playing in the background.

I said hello - let's go out to Binh Ba Island. He responded that a new laundry facility had just opened on the Market Time Base and the BM2 would be back shortly with the first load of fresh laundry. He soon arrived but there was another delay. Every other Wednesday our four man advisor team was visited by a Red Cross girl s. Sure enough, in a few minutes this cute Red Cross girl arrives with a very nice pineapple upside down sheet cake. All right! The four of us got in our very own Coastal Group 26 Advisor boat. It was a US Army ' plastic boat which I believe was designed for crossing rivers in Europe once before being thrown away.

The plastic is very thin. There are no seats or thwarts. The engine was about 5 or 10 horsepower so our one mile trip was quite leisurely. As we rounded a rocky point, there stood my new home dominated by two large, two-story yellow stucco buildings with Mediterranean red tile roofs. Built by the French Army prior to WW2, they featured high ceilings and a wonderful balcony that wrapped completely around the second floor. The four man advisor team had one half of the entire second floor.

We could have stabled 6 horses or cows inside if we had wanted to and coaxed then up the stairs. Below us were one room apartments, no windows, for the VNN sailors and their families. We had no running water; the entire base survived off a garden hose at the PCF Pier.

But we had a propane stove and a kerosene refrigerator that was able to keep our sodas and beer cold. The four of us took turns with all domestic chores. We also had a 10 KW generator that provided partial power for the VN 30 officers in their Headquarters building and the Advisors and the family community center with the only TV. Coleman lanterns provided much of our lighting. The advisors also had their own outhouse nearby painted haze gray and the door featured a lock and a crescent moon.

The VN personnel on the base always gave us knowing smiles whenever the Red Cross girls visited because they well knew how the French did things. In fact, there were three small brothel building beside the ungated main gate in the same Mediterranean architecture as our main buildings. Each of the abandoned brothels was barely big enough for a card table and three cots. I do not think the VNs believed our protestations of innocence. Our small family of 4 advisors was rounded out by three dogs. My predecessor was a conservative person from the South and he named the dogs: the black and white dog was called Great Society; the brindle female was Eleanor Roosevelt, and the yellow dog was named Stokely Carmichael.

Many months later we adoped a black puppy we named Stewpot. They were wonderful watchdogs who barked and growled at any VN visitors to our abode. They did not like the Vietnamese especially when the base dog butcher who lived below us would butcher a dog about once a month - a slow and noisy procedure. We were located in the historic and idyllic town of Bamberg. The Army sent me to their German language school so that I could perform civil affairs duties if necessary. Since I was able to speak German, my duties were not solely limited to technical aspects of being an artillery officer and a battery commander.

I was actually called upon to be the civil affairs officer they needed from time to time and was required to translate at various social affairs on the post that involved German civilians and German military officers. One of my most interesting duties was to patch up our biggest blunder.

On a cold, icy and snowy morning, a convoy of our self propelled howitzers was moving through a German village near the Kaserne on the way to field maneuvers. One of our biggest guns started slipping down the hill leading into the village and turned sideways - thus projecting its large cannon over the side of the road. As much as the crew tried to get it stopped, they were not successful until the cannon took out the entire side of a German house and destroyed feet of fence.

Our boys thought it was quite funny to see the startled German family sitting at their table having breakfast completely exposed to the elements from one side of the room. However, the American and German officials were not quite so happy, and I was sent as a representative of the Army to deliver the humble apologies of the command and to reimburse them financially for the damage to their property.

The German Santa Claus differs from the 32 American version in that he wears a red stocking cap and sports a brown rather than a white beard. Instead of having a big black belt around his gigantic stomach, Kris Cringle does not need to be quite so fat and gets by with tying a white rope cord around his waist. So, that was me - good old Kris Cringle. The first year that I was Santa Claus, we had about60 orphan children come to our mess hall for the affair. I particularly enjoyed the fact that our battalion ladies organization obtained the services of a number of local fraulines to assist in handling the children and communicate with them.

I not only had fun communicating with the children in German but also established some good relationships with the fraulines. We arranged to give each child three gifts. The first was a toy, the second an item of clothing to wear and the third a small parcel of candy and fruit. The children were just overjoyed for having any gifts sat all for Christmas, and they particularly enjoyed the games organized for them by Kris Cringle.

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Back To America At Last After arriving back at the caserne from our final European vacation, I learned that I had orders to join an artillery battalion in the states that was preparing to move as a unit to Viet Nam. We arrived in the dark of midnight, and Melissa and I went to sleep after getting off the plane in the quarters that had been provided for us. It was like a dream, just a few hours before we had been in the foreign land we had lived in for three years. We had transgressed through a dark tunnel in the night. When we woke up in the morning, we were back in the United States. I will always remember catching the bus to go over to Philadelphia to pick up my automobile at the ship yard.

It was such a joy to see a sign in English and to board and pay for the fare in real American money. The driver even spoke English. As a matter of fact, all of the people around me were speaking English. It was a beautiful fall day at the end of , and all of the trees were turning color in the high class suburban communities that we passed through on the way to Philadelphia.

It was the time of the morning for the local children to go to school, and their conversation with their old friend the bus driver as they got on and off the bus was music to my ears. I was so happy to be back in America, and until that moment I did not realize how much I had really missed it and what a good country it is and how much it has to offer. As I looked around me in these early hours as the sun was just beginning to illuminate the new day, I saw many things that I had missed for the three years that I was overseas.

I was so happy to be back, I got chills up and down my back and tears of joy came to my eyes. Melissa and I split our 30 days leave between our two families and then headed for my new assignment at Ft. Bragg North Carolina. We purchased a house there because we knew it was where Melissa 34 would be staying while I would be serving in Viet Nam with my new unit. My first three months with the new outfit were spent in quiet yet busy and hectic preparation for overseas shipment to Viet Nam.

There were no bands or cheering crowds to hail our departure. It was as if we were going on another training mission a short distance away. It was not World War I or II or Korea, it was just a battle that was going on in that distant Asian land that nobody in the states really gave a dam about and wanted to wash their hands of.

I got the feeling from passers by as we left that they were just glad it wasn't them that had to go. She was able to conceal her emotions and hold her tears back much better than I. After saying goodbye, I had to walk alone in the darkness of the night to dry my eyes and gain enough composure to fact my troops and make the move to the flight line for take off. To most of the younger men in the battery, going to Viet Nam was a great adventure.

They had not yet acquired the ties of a family and children. However, I could see that the strain of going away from their families for a year had taken its effect on our senior noncommissioned officers. Their eyes were as red and puffy as mine, and all of us were polite enough not to look each other in the eye. We just went about our business to get the job done. We stayed there just long enough for refueling and processing and to get some free time to take in the acts of Carol Doda and some of the other topless Go-Go girls in San Francisco.

From this point on in our travel half way around the world, our aircraft became a veritable maintenance headache. We landed at Hickham field in Hawaii and were delayed for 2 days while various fuel line problems were being taken care of. I did not object because we were not only able to see Pearl Harbor but the gorgeous scenery at Waikiki Beach as well.

Our next stop was Kwajalein which is a remote island spot on the water in the Marshall Islands. In fact it is such a small spot that as we landed on it in our C we could see water on all four sides as the plane taxied and made the various turns on the runway. The only current reason for Kwajalein existence is that it is the end of the Air Force missile testing range and the point from which the Nike Zeus and Sprint missiles are launched.

All Kwajalein amounted to was a piece of volcanic rock sticking up out of the ocean topped with huge radar masts and missile launching areas. This god forsaken place was actually a duty station for some 36 people, and they certainly had to be a special breed of animal to put up with it. We were delayed again at Kwajalein for mechanical difficulties with our C but we were able to pass the time by feeding ourselves with steaks at the officers club and getting some exercise in the swimming pool.

We spent three days there because one of our four engines on the aircraft had to be replaced. As I think back now, we were quite lucky that we didn't all end up victims of an air crash some where in the middle of the Pacific. The only thing to pass the time at Guam besides eating steak 4 37 and drinking at the officers club was to learn as much as we could about the B52s and their crews. Another captain and I buddied up with one of the crews upon arrival at Guam.

The next night they slipped us aboard their aircraft to go along on a bombing mission which was to drop a load of bombs on suspected enemy concentrations along the Ho Chi Minh trail. Even though it was an actual combat raid, the air of the whole thing was quite relaxed because the crew knew that there would be no resistance met during the entire 21 hour mission. Once they got the bird into the air, they slipped it into automatic pilot and began cooking their TV dinners, reading books and playing chess to while away the hours.

The actual bombing run was quite routine and could be controlled automatically by remote radio control stations that locked us in on the target. However, the bombardier took the system out of automatic and let me push the button to release the bombs. I never did find out what effect our raid had.

Nevertheless, I am sure it came as a surprise to some poor unsuspecting Vietnamese, because we were flying so high we could neither be seen nor heard from the ground. Although I had navigation courses at Annapolis, I marveled at the ability of the crew to find that tiny island of Guam out there in the middle of the ocean as we returned. The sight of all those B52s lined up on the island was quite awesome as we made our approach. Each aircraft was isolated in its own revetment with its tall black tail stuck up above the walls like a mysterious yet powerful shark slithering through the water yet showing its fin.

Two days later, we took off on the final leg of our 12, mile journey to our ultimate destination, the air field at Pleiku in the Central Highlands of South Viet Nam. Our group was a small battalion advance party of officer sand men. The mission was to put up a headquarters and prepare an area for the arrival of the rest of the battalion.

None of us had been into combat before, and we each had our own visions as to what we would see as we touched down in Viet Nam. I pictured a highly guarded Air Field surrounded by considerable defenses. I fully expected to have our Cl 30 get shot at as we attempted to land and that I would hear rifle shots and artillery resounding in the background as we got off the aircraft. I further 38 envisioned that the air field would be cut out of the virgin jungle and that after debarking from our craft we would travel through the woods to another area that had been hewn out of the virgin timber.

I then assumed after an initial briefing we would be dropped into yet another area to clear away the trees, strip the vegetation and establish our headquarters command post. My comrades and I discussed these very thoughts we were having, and they imagined much the same things as I did. We were all quite excited when the crew informed us that the coast of Viet Nam was in sight and we would be passing into the combat zone. Like the big heroes that we all were, we donned our flack jackets, steel helmets, camouflage gear, ammunition belts, hand grenades and weapons and nervously awaited our first combat landing.

Nobody talked too 5 39 much, and we all understood what was going through the minds of others. We pretended to be very brave, but deep inside we were all scared to death. At least I was! The landing we made in the Cl 30 was the first of quite a few of the same type I would experience in my year in the war zone.

Rather than make a long straight-in approach, the pilot flew the airplane at an altitude of several thousand feet right over the air field and then spiraled down so that the aircraft would be exposed to areas outside of the defense perimeter for the minimum length of time. Enemy snipers just loved to bring down 7 million dollar aircrafts with a few automatic rifle shots. My first landing of this type was probably the most difficult of all, because the aircraft was loaded to the gills with heavy equipment that we had brought from the states.

Making the spiral decent, the pilot literally stood our big four engine monster on its wing and rapidly spiraled it on down to a short approach. This maneuver was followed by the application of full reverse thrust of the propellers and the heavy application of brakes. All in all, it was a very skillful operation and quite thrilling for the first time.

In our preparations for debarking the aircraft, we had even given out assignments for manning the perimeter and for unloading the equipment. Much to our dismay, upon taxiing up to the parking area, we found it to be a bright warm sunshiny and generally rather pleasant day in Pleiku, South Viet Nam.

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The temperature was in the high seventies, and there were no sounds of combat activity in the area. We were met very casually by two jeeps which carried the artillery group commander and his operations officer. We were very shocked to see that they did not have escorts and their armament was limited to their 45 caliber pistols and steel pots.

No flack jacket, no hand grenades, no ammunition belt, just their pots and pistols. I was quite relieved at this sight, but some of the younger fellows were dismayed that they would have to wait a few days to kill their first Viet Cong. Soon, a few other vehicles arrived and loaded our personal gear to head for the group headquarters area. Other crews were to come out later to unload the aircraft. It turned out that the area was really quite quiet and that it was generally harassed only during hours of darkness by enemy sniper, mortar and rocket attacks.

We found that 40 the name of our new home was to be Artillery Hill which was just a ten minute ride from the air field. The artillery group headquarters sat on the top of the hill and the headquarters of its assigned battalions were sprawled along the hillside and around the circumference of the hill. The characteristics of this central highland plain were just the opposite of what I had imagined.

There were a few bushes and shrubs, a few rice paddies and lots of open fields. There were probably only about ten trees on the entire artillery hill complex. It turned out that the area that we were to live in was either dry and very dusty or wet and very muddy. Both conditions were quite undesirable. We moved out smartly to the area and pitched our tents to get ready to bed down for the night. Fears ran high again as nightfall descended upon us because we were really not sure what to expect.

The perimeter of the camp consisted of triple concertina wire and defensive fox hole dugouts every 50 feet. It was manned by walking patrols during daylight hours, and every fox hole contained two guards during hours of darkness. The wire was also well ensconced with claymore mines that could be triggered from the foxholes, booby traps and tin cans with rocks in them that would rattle and detect the presence of an enemy soldier trying to cut his way through.

The defenses of artillery hill were actually quite good because we always kept a few cannons on hand to sock it to anybody who decided to get bold and attack. As a matter of fact, prior to the time we arrived the hill had never been under severe enemy attack. As darkness settled upon us, we crawled into our sleeping bags with our rifles and grenades in easy range and waited to see what would happen next. Within the hour, there was a tremendous rat tat tat noise outside of the perimeter, flashes and flares, and we thought certainly that we were under attack.

After re-containing our hearts which had jumped into our throats, we were able to scramble out of bed, dress and see what was going on. It turned out that all of this activity was merely the highly routine process of test firing the 50 caliber machine guns and other weapons that defended our whole complex. We soon were to get used to these noises and the sight and sound of perimeter flares going off at regular intervals. We immediately became quite involved in the details of arranging for the arrival of our main body of men and supplies. They were due to arrive at the port of Qui Nhon within the week and travel over land by convoy with our Howitzers and heavy equipment to Pleiku.

I was certainly glad that being in the advance party I would not have to face the dangers of such a convoy during my first few days in Viet Nam. My duty instead was to set up the communications network and get power lines run from our main camp generator down to our headquarters area. The power lines and the communications antennas etc. After completing an extensive tour of the Pleiku Air Base, the 4th division camp, the city of 42 Pleiku and any other place I could think of, I was unable to find any power poles.

I soon learned from the group communications officer that the nearest available poles were in Qui Nhon and they had to literally be stolen or midnight requisitioned. So, even before my friends in the main body of our battalion arrived, I was trapped into making the overland trip from Pleiku through Ankhe and on over to Qui Nhon with the group communications officer - otherwise known as Dirty John. John had been in country for almost 10 months by this time, and he was not too concerned about the danger of the trip. As a matter of fact, he was quite successful in alleviating most of my fears by relating that he had not been shot at once since he had been in this part of Viet Nam.

He also told me of the many female contacts that he had in Qui Nhon 7 43 and said that he would be happy to take me along on a few escapades in the big city if I was interested. Being the hunter and seeker that I am, I told him that yes, I would certainly be interested. I also asked that he do his level best to get me to Qui Nhon safely.

The trip was a distance of about miles, but because of the poor conditions of the shell pocked roads, it took us every bit of 8 hours to make the trip. There are few times that I can remember that I felt as insecure as I did traveling through no mans land not knowing if we were to be waylaid by an enemy patrol or sniper or not. Large parts of our route were well cleared, and there was a good distance between the road and the tree line. On the other hand, there were other areas where the tree line came right to the edge of the road, and in these places we had very little visibility to see what was in store for us ahead.

My constant companion, the Ml6 rifle, was fully loaded with a double clip set and in the full automatic position for any emergency situation. Although it was quite a tense trip for me, we didn't encounter any suspicious individuals and met only a hand full of army vehicles that were traveling the other way.

This trip was the first real close look that I had had at the Vietnamese people and I got a good chance to see how they lived, as we passed through or near the quite primitive Montagnard villages in the highlands which slowly transitioned to regular Vietnamese villages as we drew close to the seacoast and the port of Qui Nhon. I am thankful that the trip was quite uneventful and served mainly as a get-acquainted tour for me.

After getting settled in a transient officers billet in the city, Dirty John and I made a tour of the local logistics complexes to try to locate our telephone poles. God, On My Own Little Island Within two short weeks, I completed my duties of coordinating the setup of the base camp and battalion headquarters.

Just at the time I had completed these tasks, one of my fellow officers who was in command of the C Battery was wounded. I was given his command. I would not have received this fascinating job under other circumstances, because I had already submitted my resignation twice. My commanding officer knew I would be released from the Army 44 upon return to the states or shortly thereafter.

In spite of this, I was the senior Captain in the battalion and really was the one most qualified to take command. The battery was located among the remains of what used to be the village of Due Co at a position just a few kilometers from the border of Cambodia and the famed Ho Chi Min Trail. Contrary to most of the American public beliefs or understandings, the Ho Chi Min Trail is not just a single road, but a whole network of roads and trails that wind their way down through the triple canopy jungles from North Viet Nam and Laos to provide the main supply arteries for communist offensive operations in South Viet Nam.

Quite a number of these trails were located in the Due Co area, and the mission 8 45 of our fire base was to be an island in the midst of the enemy from which allied search and destroy operations were conducted. It was quite an interesting game of Russian roulette we played with our friends with the slant eyes, sandals, shorts and bags of rice. Our Infantry and armored patrols conducted their operations during the hours of daylight protected by the umbrella of artillery support that my Howitzers provided. The enemy knew it would be this way and holed up in their scattered hiding places during the day.

After a long day of struggling through the rice paddies in the sweltering humid heat, our men would return to their camps within our well defended perimeter. Their noisy departure, of course, was the signal for the turnover of the territory to the bad guys. They again commenced their operations under the cover of darkness. Nevertheless, I am sure they lived in constant fear of being hit by the barrages of our Howitzers which sent artillery projectiles thundering through the heavens in the darkness like small locomotives running completely out of control.

In spite of the harassment and interdiction by our artillery, the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese regulars still managed to slip their supplies through the area right under our noses and continue their offensive operations and well known terrorist attacks. We fully expected to have our fire base mortared about three nights a week, and it happened on a very regular schedule. All of our control points and sleeping quarters were well dug in under ground and covered with thick layers of sand bags. Thus, it took a direct hit through an entrance to our underground quarters to produce casualties on our side.

We were never in fear of being overrun by any enemy force - whatever its size - because we had our six artillery pieces positioned in a circle with each of them covering a 60 degree piece of the perimeter pie. Our beehive rounds were also available at all times right next to the breech of each gun. These were special antipersonnel rounds which contained many thousands of little round pointed flechettes which 46 when fired spread around the center of the firing line and far to the left and right.

They literally blew down everything in range. To my knowledge, only one sizeable enemy force ever tried to overrun one of our artillery firing bases, and it met with the terrible, devastating defeat. One of my friends whom I had met at nuclear weapons school in Germany commanded the artillery battery and fire base that the enemy tried to overpower. He had his troops fend off the attackers as best they could by conventional means using rifles, machine guns and claymore mines. When it could be seen that the enemy force probably numbered well over and that they were starting to make headway, my captain friend gave the order for all pieces to load one beehive round and stand by.

As the enemy started forging their way over the wire, he gave the command for all hands to stop firing and hit the deck. An instant later, he fired all six Howitzers at once covering the entire degree perimeter with barbed steel flechettes. When I talked to him afterward, he said that after the roar of the howitzers died off into the night, there was almost complete and utter silence on the battle field.

In that there was no moon, all that he and his men could hear were the wailing screams of the Orientals who had not been killed instantly by the barrage. The remaining hours of darkness were filled with the sounds of the surviving North Vietnamese dragging their casualties off into the jungle and concealing their dead. As the sun came up in the morning, the entire perimeter was encircled with stains of red interrupted only by pieces of flesh and uniforms that could not be carried away.

Further, there were 15 or 20 bodies that had become entangled in the barbed wire that the enemy could not take with them. It was estimated that of the force of who attacked the artillery base only 50 survived. The word got around quite rapidly to the enemy about the awesome destructive capability of the beehive round, and none of the artillery batteries in the entire First Field Force had too much difficulty with mass attacks from that time on.

The command of my fire base was really a considerable responsibility. Our fire base could be reached only during the daylight hours by armored convoy or helicopter. In addition to my artillery battery of men, I had command over two mechanized infantry platoons, two M60 tanks and crews and some Vietnamese mercenaries. We also had a Green Beret Special Forces intelligence unit that camped with us.

However, these guys were so stuck up and elite that we didn't talk to them. By special order they were relieved from the responsibility of sharing the guard duty. Our only good communications with the battalion headquarters and my commander was over the radio which, of course, could be monitored by the enemy. Thus, it was my responsibility to feed, clothe, arm and motivate my men as best I could because I was the senior officer 48 present. Aside from those few excruciating minutes when we were under attack each week, the routine of operating the fire base was really quite dull. It wasn't as exciting and inspiring as a lot of young men think.

As a matter of fact, like a lot of wartime activities, it was really very boring. There was one incident when I had to make perhaps one of the biggest decisions of my life. We worked our men quite hard around the clock, and one morning the whole world came to a frothing disappointing head for one of my men. He picked up an Ml6 rifle with a double clip of ammunition on it and started taking pot shots at everybody within the perimeter. The thing that made it particularly difficult is that he decided to do this right in the middle of a fire mission when we were supporting one of 10 49 our infantry platoons that was in contact with the enemy.

Thus, it was essential that we get our rounds on the way and right on target in the most expeditious manner possible. Our executive officer turned the guns over to the chief of the firing battery and approached the young Specialist 4th Class and tried to talk to him. He didn't have much effect upon the man, because the Specialist shot and killed our mascot dog and then pumped a round into our ammunition dump. Through the opening in my bunker, I saw him train his MI6 on my Exec, and I immediately picked up the radio to call my battalion commander for instructions.

I quickly outlined the situation to the Colonel. Being 35 miles away, he said nothing except that the situation was entirely in my hands and that he would back me to the hilt no matter what decision I might choose to make. I then came out of the bunker and stood around the corner out of sight where I could hear what was going on. I discovered that the moment was near when this errant young man was going to empty his rifle into the body of my executive officer. I drew my 45 caliber pistol and stepped around the corner at the specialist's right rear and fired a shot intending that it hit the boy in the right shoulder and knock the rifle from his grasp.

Fate then came into play because as the hammer in my pistol was about to make contact with the round, he raised his right arm to shoot my lieutenant. My bullet was already well on its way and it entered his rib cage under his right arm killing him instantly. Five minutes before, I had been quite bored with my existence, and now my whole life had turned into a messy quagmire as I moved to determine the condition of the man whom I had just shot.

Tears started to uncontrollably run down my face.

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My lieutenant looked into my eyes, understanding immediately my plight. We could both hear the background call on the radio for another fire mission, and my Exec left me standing there with one of my own troopers dead at my feet. After what must have been just a few minutes, but a period that seemed so long to me, I recovered my senses and asked two of the other men to carry the body to the medic tent. I called the Colonel on the radio to inform him of what had happened.

He took the call in flight in his helicopter as he was already on the way to the base. I was greeted the next morning by a board of officers from the Field Force Headquarters headed by a Brigadier General who was appointed to investigate all of the happenings of the previous day. After a thorough review, I was exonerated from wrongdoing, and it was concluded by the Board that the right action had been taken. They considered, as I had, the criticality of the situation and the fact that many of our own troops could have been killed in contact with the enemy without support of an artillery battery that was being shot up by a berserk soldier.

Later I 11 51 learned that the autopsy revealed a cerebral hemorrhage in the man and that this, among other things, was probably the cause of his actions. I was visited by the Field Force Artillery Commander who I learned to my pleasant surprise was my old Division Artillery Commander and that we had served together in Europe.

We had always hit it off quite well, and he offered me a position on his staff in Nha Trang. Needless to say, I was ecstatic at this offer and accepted it on the spot. My replacement flew in two days later, and two days after that I found myself getting off a Cl 30 in Nha Trang to join the Artillery staff at First Field Headquarters. Nha Trang itself was a former Vietnamese seaside resort town surrounded on three sides by the defenses of the feared South Korean White Horse division and on the fourth side by 30 miles of gorgeous white sandy beach.

This port was well defended by the US and Vietnamese Navies.

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The main avenue of the city ran right on the shoreline and was lined on both sides with beautiful palm trees and the most civilized buildings that I had yet seen in Viet Nam. The architecture was of the French motif. This was a secure area that showed few signs of the war that was going on around it. The officers and men of the US and Vietnamese forces in the corps area always looked for an excuse to come to Nha Trang on official business so that they could enjoy the pleasures of the city.

We often suspected also that the city also served as a rest and recuperation area for the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese regulars as well. If any of them were able to make it into town, they certainly could not have been easily detected among their Vietnamese countrymen. I reported into the field force headquarters for assignment. It was located in a large hotel complex that was right across the main thorofare from the beach. My job would be as operations officer in the war room.

It was my duty to relay the orders of the General's Staff to the field units and insure that communications and the flow of information between the field and the headquarters was well kept up. I was given a room in a nearby hotel that housed approximately 25 of the junior officers who worked on the Field Force Staff. I then had to get adjusted to my 15 to 18 hour a day work routine 7 days a week. The Vietnamese lunar New Year, or Tet as it was referred to, was arriving. Wolf rc itect ro e or at oc c le r Tec ni T eip ig. Paradigmatic case studies pag. The Architecture of Pavilion pag.

New strategies and tactics for urban transformation through Expo pag. Scenarios and Strategies for an Infrastructural Palimpsest. This tendency orientates the project towards a performative dimension seeing the pre- dominance of e teriorit and superficial aspects versus the founding values of architec- ture. In many cases a distorted idea of innovation emerges without real implications as re- gards its spatial and structural features, a distortion which has determined the loss of the theoretical and implementation realms of the project.

It does not show any resemblance to the lofty idea of ae t etic ociet put forward by Filiberto Menna [2] and draws on the hypnotic surplus value of spectacularization. In this process the e m and the a ilion are project themes that more than others offer endless possi ilities of semantic e ploration and e pression of the ne pervasive tendencies. Moreover the German word e and fabric is a compound of and wall. The tent solution as structure for temporary set-ups is common in the history of architec- ture as witnessed by the e cription o t e Cit o lexandria by Callissino from Rhodes, mentioning a Pavilion, called tent, for Ptolemy II BC — BC and a theatrical pro- cession, called omp.

Thanks to Renaissance parades, the special ability to create well-outlined temporary ur- ban spaces within the city, among which the one developed in Venice in for the celebrations welcoming Henry III king of France and Poland, was acquired.


The best archi- tects in the city worked on the event set-up, such as Veronese and Tintoretto, designing structures recalling the Roman history, as well as Palladio, thanks to whom the emblem and symbol of Venice was heightened by a temporary Loggia. As it is shown especially in some engravings and paintings, down the history ephemeral architecture has been elevated to the cul- turally noble rank of stone arc itect re. In the light of these considerations the pre- fabricated iron and glass framework of Lon- don Crystal Palace can be seen as a big temporary tent set up in Hyde Park em- bracing the question of architectural form in the perspective of the expressive function of technical no ledge filling the gap et een structural rationale and stylistic approach to architectural language.

The con- figuration of the e hi ition space im ued with innovative technology, makes Crystal Palace a paradigmatic architecture as well as a benchmark for the pavilion projects in the later world expositions, such as Le alerie des ac ine in Paris Also in these cases the theme of Pavilion is modulated in a one-room space through a construction tech- nique which has a profound communicative significance according to the principle of ig exhibit boxes even if unlike the latter ones the structure is characterized by the vertical extension of its framework containing the dif- ferent stands.

The frame or consists of a grid of steel at ars intersecting up to the roof, which conveys the idea of strength. The color used highlights the pureness of the space in relation ith the green of the par re ected the glass panes The list of the Pavilions that clearly recall the archetype of the tent is long. Surely it is worth mentioning the R a ilion by Angelo Mangiarotti at Genoa Sea Fair as an example of style and elegance and the more recent Portugal Pavilion by Alvaro Siza at Lisbon Expo, sublimely symbolizing a nation with its big velarium and sophisticated, though not ostentatious, technological experimentation.

One more example is the adiglione del iappone by Tadao Ando for Seville Expo, a big canopy whose provisional essence is revealed by the realization process from set-up through dismantlement to reconstruction. The frame canopies of the erman a ilion at ontreal orld xpo by Frei Otto as well as the later project at London Serpentine aller by Zaha Hadid seem to revive the tent icon like the concrete shell of Brussels adiglione ilip by Le Cor- busier.

Far from the manifesto intentions recognizable in the project for the prit No - ea at Paris World Expo in , Brussels Pavilion is a multidisciplinary work involving the musician and mathematician annis ena is, the film director hilippe gostini, and the composer Edgar Varese. A hypertechnological object whose space becomes a hypertextual environment of acoustic-visual experience, a cocooning theatre of sounds and lights. The stereometric volumes show sense of measure and classicism without veering into eoclassical affectation in spite of the clear cut linearit characterizing the surfaces.

Many examples of Pavilions conceived as classical monuments have appeared down the centuries, from the trian a ilion osef offmann at ologne er nd to the more recent ort gal a ilion by Alvaro Siza at Lisbon Expo From Art Space to Technological Temporary Installation Due to its ephemeral essence the Pavilion is a peculiar and atypical structure in the realm of architecture that, tending to satisfy its everlasting intimate need to defy time, adopts it as a space for incessant experimentation and regeneration.

With its innate provisional essence it is the concretization of an idea which is still in-em- bryo t o g t. From this standpoint it can be seen as an acid test ith a ver strong s m olic signifi- cance. Besides, the fast realization of Pavilions and stands turns the ephemeral dimension into aesthetical category facilitating the comprehension of the installation-art-architecture nexus in which art, as Germano Celant [5] says, becomes not only fading out vision but also medium between space and object. The latter one should be exhibited rather than represented.

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