The Color of Deception: An Ironic Black and White Tale of Love, Tragedy, and Triumph

by Frank Perdue

  I choose to believe that there is a life after death. Otherwise what would be the point of life? And there has to be a point, don’t you see? I suppose it all comes down to whether one believes in God. Not necessarily Jesus, or Buddha, or some statue. But the one who created all this that we call our world, and life itself. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. All it takes is the miracle of birth to know that there is a higher power; that which we call God. It would be just too much of a coincidence if every species on earth developed a reproductive system without divine help, given that they are so varied. But all produce the same result; to perpetuate life on earth.

  I hope this has helped. God has already blessed you. May you have the wisdom to see that..

  Love, Zee

  There was no last name. Daryl found out a few days later that Zee was a famous author, who wrote many books about human relationships.

  Sophie was the last to lose her life that day on the fog dampened, soot blackened, unforgiving concrete of Interstate Five. The death toll, which included the tragic hero Jake Gentry, had risen to fourteen. With Joanna Thomas barely clinging to life, it could go higher.

  PART THREE

  FREE AT LAST

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ted Warner finally got into the war, but it didn’t happen in nineteen fifty-two or even nineteen fifty-three. The enemy was a Communist nation just as the North Koreans had been, but they were called the North Vietnamese, and the Viet Cong.

  It was nineteen sixty-nine. Ho Chi Minh, the Red leader from Hanoi, had just died. Still the war dragged on, spurred by the Tet offensive the year before, as the Politburo in the U.S.S.R. took over the orchestration of a government now controlled by Ton Duc Thang who had been Vice-President under Minh.

  The United States military, which by then had a strong force aiding the South Vietnamese Government, could not, or would not, bring enough power to bear on the North to end the conflict. Meanwhile, as more and more young middle-class white and mostly poor Black Americans lost their lives in the seemingly endless carnage, an anti-war backlash was gaining momentum in the States. In the arena that was public opinion, a devastating event occurred in May of nineteen sixty-eight; the My Lai massacre. In that action, if you could call it that, hundreds of innocent women and children were slaughtered under the command of William Calley, who would later be prosecuted and sentenced for his actions.

  Early in nineteen sixty-nine the “fighting man” was still a romantic and heroic figure to Ted Warner. He had seen all the John Wayne movies, and it had been his only exposure to war. The events of the previous year had not yet erased his boyhood images, gleaned from the scores of patriotic World War Two movies he had viewed as a boy.

  Ted wanted to see for himself. He was one of the lucky ones. He had to volunteer to get to the war zone. There were thousands of others who had no choice. Had they been given one, their lives probably would have turned out quite different.

  It was crazy the way it played out for Ted. He had never taken a chance in his life, except in his dreams. Yet there he was, right in the middle of a hellish shooting war. Prospects were good that he might not make it out alive. All because of that one grand gesture he had made.

  “I can handle the assignment”, he had protested, pounding his open palm on his editor’s desk for effect.

  “Naw, we need somebody with wartime experience” the man answered.

  But Ted detected a softening in his boss’ voice, and he pressed on. “Look, right now I’m the best man in this office for the job, and I’m volunteering. I don’t see anyone else doing that.” His voice almost squeaked as he tried to emphasize the passion he felt for the assignment.

  Two days later he and a radio engineer were on a military transport to Saigon. The Mutual Broadcasting Network really had some pull. Most journalists had to fly commercial. Ted was determined to bring the war back to the American people in a personal way that hadn’t been done before. The problem was, he had no idea what he was getting into.

  Over the last few years it seems he just drifted into things without really thinking them out first, or envisioning the consequences; like when he was discharged from the Navy. A few months earlier he had met a senior Petty Officer who sold life insurance when he was in port. Ted was recruited into the company. He had great expectations. Unfortunately his money ran out before his dreams of riches were realized.

  The Clean-Cut Vacuum Cleaner Company had an opening at about that time. One of the other insurance men had gone to work selling vacuums because all of the money was paid up front when a sale was made, as opposed to the mostly deferred pay plans of insurance companies. Ted’s vacuum sales career had lasted less than a month when he decided to quit. He had made zero sales, even though he believed in his product, which was a dirt guzzling dynamo.

  His Sales Manager, recognizing that the company was about to lose him, decided Ted was worth helping. Or it was determined that it would be easier straightening him out than hiring someone else for a job that was not the most attractive life choice.

  For the next week Ted observed the Sales Manager; both making appointments door to door, and closing the sale in the prospect’s home. Then he put what he had learned to work, and failed again.

  After about the third try without making a sale, Ted made a decision that would not only change his business fortune, but it would also have a profound effect on his personal life. He decided to try closing a sale by imitating his Sales Manager word for word, and gesture for gesture. Lo and Behold, it worked. In the next few months he made more appointments, and sold more Clean-Cut vacuums than any other salesman in his office.

  As time went on he incorporated his own personality, which was more sincere, into his presentations. He retained the relaxed, coaxing style of his mentor. He didn’t get rich, but he did manage to pay his bills, with a little left over for pleasure.

  He had never had much luck with women. With his newfound success, a little money in his pocket, and his role-playing technique, he was able to do much better.

  None of the women he bedded were life-partner material, but then neither was he. He was phony. He mouthed only the words that his companion wanted to hear. He exhibited a confident, almost arrogant demeanor. He was Humphrey Bogart, Clark Gable, William Holden, and Glenn Ford all rolled into one. That was what the women he met seemed to want. They saw the same movies he did, and they fancied themselves the heroine. Physically he couldn’t compare with the movie idols. His face was too thin; his nose too pointed. His jaw was not square. His build was slight. He was muscular, but not crafted. He didn’t spend time in gyms. It wasn’t important to him. It was enough that he had dark, curly hair. When he was in the Navy he grew a thin-line mustache to make him look older. At first it was so light that he colored it with mascara. He was able to navigate the bars, even at the tender age of seventeen. He looked much older. To say that he was handsome would be a stretch. He was adequate.

  Ted’s sales career lasted over five years. Eventually he grew tired of playing a role. It bothered him to cajole someone into buying a product they didn’t really want. The constant pressure to make one more deal finally got to him. His production dropped off considerably. He began cancelling appointments. He anticipated failure to close a sale.

  Ted’s greatest physical attribute was his throat. From it emanated a clear,

  resonant, deep voice. Through the years he had learned to use it well. He had a good command of the English language. His personality had developed to a point where his inferiority complex was almost non-existent.

  Over the years many people had commented to Ted that he ought to be in radio, with his voice. He had thanked each of them modestly, and shrugged it off with a “Maybe someday”.

  In nineteen sixty at the age of twenty -six, that day finally came for Ted Warner. He applied to a school of broadcasting and was accepted. He had never used his GI Bill for education before. He received money regularly from the Government until he graduated.

 
His first job took him to the far reaches of the United States; a logging town named Port Aragon on the Olympic Peninsula of the Pacific Northwest, in the State of Washington. He spent two years there, learning his trade on the job. The pay was low, but the cost of living was only a fraction of what he had endured in Southern California, so he was comfortable financially. The people of Washington were very friendly, and open. It was much different than what he’d been used to in San Diego. He enjoyed his stint in Port Aragon, but to succeed, he had to move on.

  His next brief stop on the way to recognition was at Deep Falls, Montana. The pay was higher. It was a larger market. He became even more proficient. He was making a name in the trade.

  His big break came in the fall of nineteen sixty-seven. He heard about an opening at the Mutual Broadcasting Network. He sent off tapes of his work to New York. A few weeks later he was summoned to the big city for an interview. He was given a tryout, and hired almost immediately. He’d come a long way from the door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman.

  Through all those years he never had a best friend. There was no one to share his thoughts with, only acquaintances. The longest relationship he had with anyone was two months he had lived with a girl in Port Aragon. His loneliness made it easy to volunteer for the Vietnam assignment. Who would miss him?

  He encountered great resistance to his presence right from the time he disembarked the plane. No one was interested in helping a non-combatant, especially a newsman. It took a week to arrange transportation to a forward area. He and his engineer were flown by helicopter to the Central Highlands, where much of the fighting was taking place.

  At first his taped broadcasts went well. He was limited to three minute segments. The early ones were used to describe the war in very broad terms. Soon he began doing personal interviews with the men. That’s when his perspective changed.

  Most of the Marines he interviewed were supportive of the war effort and their superiors. It was part of the training they had received way back in boot camp. Ted had been trained in a different way. He learned to dig for the real story, to ferret out the truth, no matter who was hurt by it. He’d been taught that the news was all-important. The public deserved nothing less than the whole unblemished story. If an innocent person was hurt along the way, it was unfortunate but necessary.

  Ted never completely bought that line. It wasn’t because he was righteous, or a champion of the downtrodden. It went back to his childhood. He spent so much time courting friendships, and trying to be accepted, that he developed a compassion for others whose feelings might be hurt.

  He did his job, but there was always a strong sense of right and wrong bouncing around somewhere in his subconscious.

  Everything turned on the testimony of a private first class. Ted would never forget his name; Jason Sinclair. He was from a proud old family of the Deep South. His home was in Alabama.

  Ted had fallen into the habit of first asking each man for background information, such as where they came from, and how they happened to end up in Vietnam. Jason had been drafted like so many others. He was a tobacco farmer by trade, carrying on the tradition started back in the seventeen hundreds by previous Sinclairs. He was married to what he called “a Southern Belle” and they had a little boy, Jason Junior. The marine’s older brother had the distinction of carrying on the father’s name. It was Homer. Jason was just as glad. He could not see himself as a Homer.

  After the small talk, when the Marine was relaxed, Ted asked the same question he had asked all the others before; “What do you think of this war?”

  Jason’s eyes narrowed, and he became thoughtful. “It stinks, Sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “How does it stink, Son?” The marine who stood in front of him was just a boy, marrying when he was but eighteen, and a father at nineteen.

  “When I first came to this God-forsaken country, I didn’t want to be here, but I thought it was my duty. My father had fought with the Marines in World War Two. But this is not the same.” He paused, and asked if it was all right if he smoked.

  After lighting up a Camel he continued. “You know, my family provides the tobacco for these?” He held out the pack to Ted.

  “I’ll be damned! Thanks.” He took one of the small filterless cigarettes, lighting it with a match he had pulled from the pocket of his khakis. “Go on.” Ted was anxious to hear what the boy meant by “not the same”.

  Then an amazing thing happened. The battle-hardened jungle-fighter who stood in front of Ted began to cry. Ted pulled the single hand-held microphone he was using away from the proximity of the marine and signaled to his engineer by raking his hand across his own throat, meaning cut the power to the mike.

  “Are you okay?” Ted asked, as he reached a hand across and placed it on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Yes. Sorry Sir. Let’s continue.”

  Ted retrieved his microphone, signaled his partner, then pointed to Jason, as if to say “Okay, you’re on.”

  “We were on patrol. We had orders to check out a village that was a suspected VC stronghold. When we got there, everyone just looked like poor peasants. They weren’t glad to see us or anything. They just went about their business as if we weren’t there. It seemed strange, since these were the people we were supposed to be saving. The platoon I was in was ordered to search the huts in the village for hidden weapons. We weren’t prepared for what our search turned up.”

  “And what was that?” Ted asked.

  Jason fidgeted. He kicked at some imaginary bug in the dirt in front of him. Or maybe it was real. Ted didn’t see anything. “For a while there, we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. But in one of the last shacks, we found a bunch of weapons.” He paused. “They were American guns!’

  “How could that be?” Ted remarked incredulously.

  “The only thing we could figure was, they took ‘em from one of our patrols. They were not new guns. Anyway our Lieutenant was really mad. He ordered us to burn the whole place. Some of us argued that it wouldn’t be right to punish all the people for what only a few had done. But he wasn’t about to change his mind. We did it.” Again he stopped.

  It was obvious to Ted that Jason wanted to get something else off his mind. “Then what happened?”

  “The people were screaming and shaking their fists at us. Then one boy came at the lieutenant. He couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. He had a machete in his hand. The lieutenant shot him. He just raised his forty-five and fired. The boy died right there in front of us.” Jason wiped moisture from his eyes. Then he continued.

  “We backed out of there. No one followed. They were all gathered around the dead boy.”

  Ted filed the interview the same as the others. But he knew there was no chance it would get through the military censors. He was right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Ted’s ideas about war and the people who fight it changed drastically after the Central Highlands. He went on to Bien Hoa Airbase and did more interviews, this time with Air Force personnel. He found he couldn’t get Jason Sinclair, or the story of that small village , out of his mind.

  When the North Vietnamese Army tried to overrun Bien Hoa, and were finally beaten back by the airbase security force; when the bombs fell perilously close to the bunker in which Ted and his engineer were placed for safety, still he thought of the young tobacco farmer. He wondered silently if the boy would be punished for telling the truth.

  Soon afterward, he packed up his tapes, said his goodbyes, and boarded a transport to Hawaii. He was completely disillusioned. Even the lush beaches of Honolulu couldn’t bring him out of his malaise.

  He had planned to stay in the Islands for three weeks of his two month hiatus before he had to report back for his next assignment, but there was nothing there for him. He decided the best thing would be to check in at the main studios in New York, and get back to work as soon as possible. He flew out on the first of February.

  There would be a three hour l
ayover in San Francisco before his nonstop connecting flight departed for the Big Apple. He wondered if Laura would call when he got to his apartment. He certainly didn’t intend to contact her.

  Laura Silverstein was a socialite he had met at a party about six months before his assignment to Southeast Asia. He was at loose ends, with no emotional ties, and she was supposed to be engaged to a stockbroker from Wall Street. The boyfriend wasn’t at the party, which was hosted by a Metro Editor from the New York Times. Ted had shared some notes from a radio broadcast he’d done for Mutual on a dock strike. The invite was the newspaper guy’s way of saying thanks.

  Ted sought him out, and was in an animated discussion when they were interrupted. It was Laura Silverstein.

  “I haven’t seen you before?” It was more a question than a statement. That was the beginning. It was rather a one-sided affair. He was flattered that she was interested, but that was about it. She was rude. She was demanding. She was a good lay. One out of three. The best thing about her was her clothes. She was nearly six feet tall, and skinny. Her wardrobe was huge, and expensive. Everything hung on her bony frame like a fashion model. When she came into a room she didn’t just enter. She swept in. Everyone paid attention. She was stunning, when she was dressed. When the clothes came off, it was like something was missing. Most of the time when they made it together, it was impromptu, and, often as not, most of the dynamite clothes stayed on at his request.

  The flight out over the water between Honolulu and the mainland was smooth. There were very few clouds beneath them, until they reached the coast. As luck would have it, San Francisco was socked in. The fog was so dense that nothing on the ground was visible.

  The pilot got on the intercom, and in a deep, soothing voice, gave the passengers the bad news; “I hope you all had a pleasant crossing. Unfortunately the Bay area is fogged in this morning. We’re going to hold here for awhile. It is expected to improve. Hopefully we’ll have you on the ground and on the way to your various destinations in about twenty minutes. Again thanks for flying with us.”