Legacy of War

by Ed Marohn

  Being a Starbucks junkie, I drove onto M Street NW and found one. With Starbucks’s Wi-Fi service, I could do some more research on the Phoenix Program with my laptop. I parked in a lot nearby and hoofed over to the Starbucks, ready for my espresso fix and access to my emails. I also would have time to check in with Sally.

  While waiting for my grande nonfat latte, I pulled out my laptop and thought about Sally. It felt good to know there was a chance for us.

  “Grande nonfat latte for John,” the barista yelled. I got up from my table where my laptop waited for the Wi-Fi connection and took my drink.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Let me know if that tastes OK,” the young lady said, beaming like we were old friends—a perk of getting coffee at Starbucks. I sipped my drink, nodded my approval, and headed back to my little table.

  The emails finally came up. Sally had sent me a summary of her sessions with my clients. She would still be doing psychotherapy until six, so I couldn’t bother her and instead emailed her my thanks for covering my workload. Deep down I really wanted to talk to her, but it would have to wait.

  On the internet I searched for any more information about the Phoenix Program. The only additional details came from congressional hearings on the program after the war. They took no action.

  I pulled out my notepad and jotted bullet points on the Phoenix Program gleaned from the various links: labeled a CIA assassination campaign by critics; claims of human-rights atrocities and violations by the CIA, allied organizations, and US military intelligence; US congressional hearings showed abuses occurred; corrupt Vietnamese abused the program to remove personal enemies, falsely calling them VC—allowing their execution; Phung Hoang (Phoenix) chiefs were often incompetent bureaucrats, enriching themselves; monthly neutralization quotas were used, which only increased false arrests; often bribes were paid by the NLF to release their own.

  I remembered that the NLF stood for National Liberation Front—shortened to Viet Cong—the communistic political and guerrilla warfare structure in South Vietnam.

  I also wrote the time period of the program in the Vietnam War: 1967 to 1972. I served there when it was operational. More facts surfaced and I added to my notes: 81,740 NLF members were neutralized, with 26,369 killed. The final tally was larger than Professor King’s data, although figures had to be scrutinized; US and South Vietnamese troops often inflated body counts. I suspected the opposite occurred in the Phoenix Program, which likely downplayed those actually killed since innocent civilians were murdered under the American program. We, the good guys, had crossed the line by not controlling the program, condoning by silence any travesty and allowing the blight on American morality.

  Closing down my computer, I repacked it in the briefcase and went to the counter to order another latte. I still had some time to kill, so I decided to just sip and relax, enjoying the memory of the night that Sally spent with me. After fifteen minutes, with my to-go cup and briefcase in hand, I walked out of the Starbucks and headed for the car. After clasping my seat belt, I started the drive to Jim’s home, figuring that even with the heavy DC traffic, I would get there before six.

  Alexandria, Thursday, December 19, 2002

  In rush hour traffic on Interstate 395, I thought about Jim Schaeffer. We met in Nam and became close friends, serving as captains in the 101st Airborne Division in the northern most operational area of South Vietnam, designated the I Corps. We both commanded infantry companies in the same battalion, often working in the same combat operations, which focused heavily on repulsing the NVA crossing the demilitarized zone, familiarly called the DMZ, dividing North Vietnam and South Vietnam.

  The dangerous A Shau Valley and its environs became our home. We lived and fought in the steamy jungle and on the plateaus, enmeshed in the pungent smells of the jungle decay, feeling the grit meld with our unwashed bodies, enduring the heavy humid air, hearing the forest creatures in their domain, and seeing death regularly—friends and foes grotesquely molded in their final poses. When I left at the end of my tour, Jim extended for another six months of combat near the DMZ. In that time frame, he met Kim at the Phu Bai airbase officers’ club, fell in love, and eventually married her within days of his scheduled return to the US. It was a bureaucratic nightmare working with the US Army as well as the South Vietnamese government’s archaic system, but Jim’s tenacity prevailed. She had to stay in Vietnam for a few months before getting her documents cleared, but Kim eventually joined him in the States.

  As couples, we often got together after she arrived in the States. My wife, Katy, helped Kim acclimate to America, and they became good friends. Because I left the army after completing my six-year obligation as a regular army officer, while Jim’s military career took them all over the world, we drifted apart, staying in touch only with Christmas cards. Once Jim left the military, however, we managed to reclaim our friendship, and they were at my wife’s funeral, providing the strong shoulders that I needed.

  Making decent time, I pulled into Jim’s townhouse driveway just before six. As I got out, I thought I noticed movement within a black Ford Taurus parked on the street, fifty feet from Jim’s driveway; its tinted windows prevented me from seeing inside. I was looking at the car when Jim’s front door swung open, flooding me with light.

  He stood framed by the front doorway, greeting me with a broad smile. Ignoring the Taurus, I headed to the door. We hugged. Our respect for each other developed into a bond that would go to the grave.

  “Come in, old man! God, you look fit,” he said, escorting me with his right arm around my shoulders and his left hand tousling my thick brown but gray-streaked hair. Jim’s townhouse was a colonial, three stories high, with a driveway leading into his attached garage at the base of the unit. It was a homey place, yet meticulously decorated with a blend of American and oriental designs. Kim stood in the foyer with her arms outstretched. We hugged and kissed. Kim, unlike Jim, was fit and trim; her dark hair was streaked with gray, adding to her Eurasian beauty. Her father, a French Army captain during the French Indochina War in the 1954, had a brief affair with her mother, a young waitress at a bar in Saigon. Kim’s delicate facial features and the mystery of Far East Asia had drawn Jim. Her petite five-foot-two frame completed the beautiful package.

  Jim on the other hand had added forty pounds to his six-foot body because of his long work hours, extensive business travel often spent entertaining customers with food, and lack of regular exercise. His lean, muscular body of Vietnam had disappeared, conceding to the good life and the cost of earning it. Some baldness showed through his gray hair, making him look more like a scholar than a business executive. He was happy with his life, having overcome his war demons from Nam.

  “John, a drink?”

  “Just red wine,” I said.

  Kim said, “I’m so happy to have you in our home again. We miss you terribly.” She patted me on my shoulders as she stood in her high heels, wearing black slacks and a green blouse. Seeing them together made me ache, knowing I wouldn’t experience my lovely wife hugging me again. The pain of her loss appeared within me too often.

  Jim handed me a glass of Merlot.

  “And what are you drinking, Jim?” I said.

  “Aw, I have fallen into the habit of Grey Goose vodka martinis with two olives.” He picked up his drink from the coffee table.

  “Cheers to our dear friend,” Kim said. She raised her wine glass, clinked my glass, then Jim’s. After the toast, Jim hugged his wife, planting a kiss on her cheek; the gaiety added to my loneliness over Katy’s loss. Being surrounded by good friends helped marginally. And the possibility of a relationship with Sally Catton felt right, but no certainty existed with that. Being cautious seemed to be my mantra.

  “John, I have book club tonight, so we must eat dinner soon, and then I will leave you two men to discuss your business,” Kim said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. We should catch
up tomorrow.” I took another sip of wine.

  “Don’t encourage her, John.” Jim finished his martini and laughed.

  Kim lightly slugged him on his right shoulder. “You should always respect the wife. It is the Vietnamese way,” she said, winking at me. Jim winced.

  “Yeah, well, once Kim is at her book club, I’m calling the local strip club to come over here and party. What do you think, John?”

  Before I could answer, Kim laughed and said, “Poor Jim, he doesn’t even know where a strip joint is. And if you do find one, please ensure the house is as clean as I am leaving it.”

  “On that note, I think we should eat, and then we can talk business,” Jim said.

  After dinner, Kim kissed me goodbye and paused, looking into my eyes. She slowly stroked my arm.

  “You will be OK. Just be happy for the lovely years you had with her. Her spirit is with you. Our ancestors watch over us,” she whispered as her eyes misted. “John, you cannot live alone forever. I knew Katy, and she would have wanted you to be happy. This loneliness is not you. You need to start dating.”

  “Thanks, Kim.” My eyes felt moist, and my bravado had taken a step back, shaken by Kim’s sincerity, her kindness. I struggled with my many emotions, but I sensed a positive for my life: the beginning relations with Sally. It seemed to relax me.

  As Kim shut the front door, I looked at Jim quizzically. “Oh, don’t worry; she parked her car on the street so that you had the driveway. She’s OK. Let’s go into my den. I’ve got cognac ready.”

  I followed him into his small lair. “That was a good dinner, Jim. I forgot what a great cook Kim is.”

  “Yeah, Kim’s meals are . . . well, an exquisite blend—oriental and French cuisine. I just enjoy.”

  He pointed me to a lounge chair by his small desk as he parked his heavy body in his swivel chair. Rotating to face me, he poured two glasses of cognac.

  “OK, what I’m about to tell you has to be between us for now. My source is in the CIA and a business friend. He should be trustworthy.”

  “OK,” I said, glancing at my watch. It was after seven. “Wait a moment though—I need to check in with Sally.”

  “Tell me, have you . . . you know . . . gotten involved?”

  “Well,” I said, worried that I had assumed too much with her. “She’s my associate—a great psychologist.”

  The deflection didn’t fool Jim. He winked knowingly and raised his hands in mock surrender as I dialed the office number on my cell, thinking Sally was still there.

  The office phone rang the normal three times before I got the answering machine: “This is the office of Doctor John Moore and Doctor Sally Catton; our office hours are . . .” I punched code number two, Sally’s message box. “At the sound of the beep, please leave your message.”

  “Sally, this is John. I’m running late, but I am at Jim’s house and will be staying here. I know you have to be bushed after a full day of sessions, so I’ll call you tomorrow. I was thinking maybe I should come back before Christmas. That is, if you want? OK, aw . . . goodnight.” I turned off the cell, closed it, and placed it in my suit pocket. I wanted to say that I missed her, but something told me to not push, to be patient.

  “You should be dating her. Not a healthy life you have, you know.” Jim smiled to counter my shaking head.

  I leaned back in the club chair. “Jim, I think there’s something but it’s still too early to broadcast. I will keep you up to speed. Let’s just focus on Reed first. I got the official verdict from the Rock Hill Police, and Reed committed suicide.”

  “John, I’m sorry. Shit, I know how you care about your patients. Maybe what I’m about to tell you will answer things.”

  As Jim finished his remark, the doorbell rang. Jim smiled mischievously and said, “Just in time. Wait here.” He rose and headed into the living room toward the front door. My curiosity piqued as I sipped the cognac, looking around the den.

  Shortly, Jim came back into the den with a man in tow. “John, I want you to meet James Woodruff, assistant director of the CIA. He knows a little about you.”

  I rose and shook his hand. His smile disarmed me, my surprise showing. Why was he here?

  Woodruff’s blue eyes were penetrating, a stare probably developed from many years of being an agent for the US. He was about fifty years old, but he looked older, due to the agency and its demands. I could imagine the headaches that came with being a CIA assistant director with little time for anything else. His gray-and-brown streaked hair was thinly combed over his head, delaying the bald look. His slouch disguised his five feet and eleven inches of height. Woodruff’s wrinkled cheeks and tired eyes took away from his expensively tailored navy-blue suit. The black diagonal bars on his deep red rep tie completed his look of power. He turned to Jim and accepted the glass of cognac, then returned to probing me with his eyes while claiming the chair opposite me. Uneasiness crept within me.

  The caffeine from my espressos earlier had worn off, bringing fatigue.

  Jim started. “OK, here goes. I will let James interrupt when he feels the need. Todd Ramsey was a CIA agent in the war and got bounced out of the agency after fifteen years of service. The reason: He had a very severe case of PTSD.”

  “Why didn’t the agency get help for him?” I looked at Woodruff.

  “We tried, but his mood swings worked against any healing and thus made him too unpredictable for any assignments. He got a decent buyout to return to civilian life,” Woodruff answered.

  “So is he the reason for my patient’s suicide?” I continued.

  “Aw . . .” Woodruff hesitated. “Probably indirectly. But then again, we can only speculate.”

  “OK, as a psychologist, I can buy that Ramsey triggered Tom Reed’s depression . . .”

  “Look, John—may I call you by your first name?”

  I nodded.

  “I know you’re familiar with the Phoenix Program,” he stated.

  I nodded again, not surprised. They probably know about today’s meeting with Professor King, I thought.

  “His handler in the American Embassy in Saigon during the war years verified to me a report that came across his desk in 1970. It was from a South Vietnamese Army captain who charged that Ramsey violated Geneva Convention rules by tossing a Viet Cong POW out of a helicopter. Later there were unproven reports of him executing over one hundred villagers who were noncombatants, west of Da Nang. His US Army assistant, SPEC 4 Tom Reed, served with him during those same periods. All these reports were buried.”

  “No investigation?”

  “Look, I am not making excuses, but the CIA certainly couldn’t allow such accusations to come out.”

  Jim and I glanced at each other. The corruption in that war never ceased to dismay me. Why did we lose so many Americans on the battlefield fighting the NVA while CIA agents destroyed the rule of law, tarnishing the noble but misinformed mission of helping the South Vietnamese stay independent?

  I said, “Yeah, and probably that ARVN captain who had the guts to write the report disappeared—killed or sent to a South Vietnamese prison. One of the few ethical South Vietnamese officers. Remember our two assholes, the two psychotic ARVN colonels we encountered in Nam? That night in Saigon.” I looked over to Jim.

  “Colonels Hung and Loan,” Jim said.

  “Yes, those two,” Woodruff said.

  Shocked, I leaned forward in my chair toward the CIA man. “How the hell do you know about those two goons?”

  “Suffice it to say that Ramsey, Reed, Colonel Hung, and Colonel Loan knew each other very well. Ramsey and Reed probably sold their souls to those two psychopaths—Hung and Loan. In return, they became mental cases with PTSD. And we know about your encounter with Ramsey, when you saved the lives of the two POWs onboard the Huey,” Woodruff said

  “This is a bad dream. What don’t you know about me?�
�� I said and sat back.

  Ignoring my question, Woodruff seemed eager to finish the narrative. “In April 1975, with the US Embassy evacuation as NVA tanks entered the outskirts of Saigon, Ramsey returned to the US. Then he went on special cold war assignments in Europe, particularly in West Germany and the Netherlands. He became the go-to guy for interrogating suspects seen as threats to the US. But his bosses noticed his mental breakdowns and had to keep moving him to less-demanding jobs, and eventually out of the company.”

  “So he finally gets booted for suffering from PTSD. And no one helped him.” I finished my cognac and held it out for a refill.

  Jim poured the amber gold into my glass.

  “The breaking point occurred over a prisoner going insane while Ramsey interrogated him. It went very bad—Ramsey lost control,” Woodruff said and offered his empty glass to Jim for a refill.

  I shifted in my seat and stared out the only window in the den, overlooking an alley. My eyes returned to the room. “Then what happened?”

  “He became a contract employee for the CIA, continuing the same dirty stuff.”

  I took another sip of the cognac, shaking my head.

  Jim looked hard at me and said, “The two had an ugly secret they shared. Maybe what they did in Nam came back to Reed when he saw Ramsey. A PTSD-damaged vet like Reed could certainly kill himself. You and I know many Nam vets committed suicide upon return to the States.”

  “There could be something else between Reed and Ramsey besides the PTSD,” I said.

  “That’s plausible,” Woodruff said.

  Jim and I looked at Woodruff.

  Woodruff suddenly stood up and focused on me. “I am requesting we meet in a couple of days. I will have a better briefing for you to explain all this. When Jim contacted me, it raised concerns but also some solutions. I can’t say more until I get the plans finalized, so to speak. I didn’t want to do anything until I talked to you. This all could work.”