Here are two lost pictures--the only color shots I know of taken of me entertaining at Quang Tri, on the DMZ. The year was 1971 and I was pushing 40. When I look back on these shots today, I don't know how I did it.

These pictures are published with the permission of the soldier who shot them at that night's performance, R.J. "Smitty" Smith, E Company 1/11th Infantry, 5th Division. My sincerest thanks to you, Smitty. The memories came rushing back when I saw these photographs. They make me want to go again. If they'd let me, I'd go today to entertain in Iraq.

Chapter Two
Remember Me from Quang Tri?

April 1971

We have helicoptered for the better part of three days from Saigon to the DMZ. The two Hueys that have been temporarily assigned to me by the Army have faithfully growled and chattered their way northward bearing my musicians and me. Even when we are not flying, stopped at some small fire station to refuel, I still feel the vibration of the helicopter. We have made stops along the way at fire stations large and small. My little band sets up their instruments wherever they can find an open space and an electrical outlet for the amps. I do my show from flatbed trailers and open-air mess tents. The soldiers seem glad to see me. Glad, I think, to see someone in dresses and smelling of perfume, and speaking with an accent they identify with home. We arrive at our final destination: Quang Tri. Here, a sizable complement of men defends the boundary that separates the two Vietnams. Quang Tri is situated on a little plateau commanding a broad view of the de-militarized zone. As my helicopter settles onto the landing pad, I can look out over the DMZ toward North Vietnam. A few miles from where my Huey's rotors are slowly coming to a stop, there are tough and fast North Vietnamese troops waiting to invade. By day the NVA regulars guard the secret twistings of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, supply lifeline for the Viet Cong in the south; by night they probe for weak spots in our defenses. The motto of the men at Quang Tri is: "We Walk the Line." From what General Hill, the commanding officer at Quang Tri tells me as he graciously turns over his quarters for me to use during my stay, it is a dangerous line to walk. More than once Quang Tri has defended itself almost to the last man.

I get a big reception from the men in Quang Tri. General Hill is enthusiastic about a show to boost his men's morale and has made it possible for many of them to come in off patrol for a short time. A line of tanks with tracks coated in sticky red mud greets me. The youngsters manning the tanks shout and wave as I approach. I want to cross over to the boys on the tanks, but the mud stops me. A young soldier scoops me up in his arms, carries me across the mud, and deposits me on the lead tank. The rest of the soldiers cheer harder. I pose for pictures and sign autographs for the better part of an hour. When I do my show that night, these boys will already be back on patrol. I try to get some rest before my show that evening. General Hill's spartan trailer is comfortable after days of sleeping wherever I could--on the hard bench seat of the helicopter or on a cot hastily moved into a corner of a hooch at some fire base. My mind goes back to Perry, my son. Mail from my mother has finally caught up with me. Between the lines I read that Perry is upset with my absence. And why not? Television news is filled with body counts and tales of destruction, and his mother is somewhere in the middle of it. I miss Perry and my mother and father terribly. I begin to cry wishing I were home. I stop myself with the realization that everyone in this place wishes the same thing, and drift away into troubled sleep. My show that night is received enthusiastically. After the show General Hill presides over a party. Tables are set up and there are plenty of thick steaks and baked potatoes. There is warm beer for the grunts and wine for the officers. I am seated between General Hill and the guest of honor, an enlisted man named Charlie. Charlie is going out the next day to "Walk the Line"--a scouting mission that will take him into the wild back country of the DMZ, often in close proximity to the north Vietnamese. He is a shy young man of nineteen with that hard, lean face you find in the hollows and backwoods of Virginia and the Carolinas. He talks softly when he talks at all, telling me about his family back home, showing me a dog-eared photograph of the girl who wears his ring. By the time the party breaks up, Charlie is a little drunk and wanders off with his buddies amid lots of back-slapping and laughter.

Eventually, I say my goodnights and retreat to my quarters, take a shower, and get ready for bed. As I turn out the light, there is a tentative knock at the door. I open it and find Charlie standing there in the darkness. "Good evenin', Mamie," he said, still a little drunk. "Charlie, good evening. Don't you think you ought to get some sleep? You've got a big day tomorrow." "It's such a beautiful night… I thought I'd come see if you wanted to go for a walk." "Walk? Where?" "Out here near your trailer. I just wanted to talk to you a little. Seems like it's been so long since I talked to a woman--I mean a real lady like you." We talk outside for several minutes about home and how long it will be before he can go there. When I look at Charlie in all his youth and his naïve enthusiasm for going home, I suddenly feel very tired. I want to run away from all this wasted youth being spent in the service of a war that is barely understood by the government running it, much less by the boys whose deadly job it is to fight it. My son could be here one day if the war goes on long enough. What will I do then? Let him go? Or send him to a place where he will be safe? Charlie's voice brings me back to the present. "Mamie? I don't want you to take this wrong, but could I… could I touch your breast? Nothing else, mind you. I just that I haven't touched a woman for so long and I…" I take Charlie's hands in mine and press them to my breast. His breath catches for a moment and I feel the heat from his palms. After a moment he pulls away. "Thank you, Mamie," he says solemnly. "It…it was a pleasure to be of service." "Could I give you something to remember me by, Mamie?" "I'll never forget you, Charlie. You don't have to give me anything." "Here," he says, reaching into his pocket. "Take this." He holds out a shiny Zippo cigarette lighter. "I couldn't, Charlie, really." "Please take it. See, it's got our motto on it: 'I Walk the Line.' If you take it, I know it'll bring me good luck." I thumb open the lighter and spin the wheel. The wick catches and a big blue flame illuminates our faces. I kiss Charlie gently on the cheek. He turns and walks away into the night. Though I never saw Charlie again, I have stubbornly refused in the more than twenty-five ensuing years, to believe that his life ended there on that plateau overlooking no man's land. Instead, I cling to the belief that he survived the next day's dangerous patrol, and, ultimately, the war in Vietnam, and that he is somewhere out there, reasonably well-adjusted, holding down a good job, and raising kids with the girl in that well-worn picture. I persist in my belief because I owe Charlie. You see, my son never had to go. Charlie did. To be continued....

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Entertaining Vietnam

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

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Revised February 28, 1999
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