50th Anniversary Issue — October 1, 1995

By Gary M. Cooper

The 20th anniversary of the end of the Vietnam War was marked in May, but I'm convinced that war -- any war -- never ends for the people who come face to face with its horror.

Thirty years ago, when my little window on the war was about to be opened, I was on top of the world -- a young sailor getting to live like a civilian and to work with civilian professionals at Pacific Stars and Stripes in Tokyo.

The place was bustling in those happy days. One U.S. dollar could be exchanged for 360 yen. With 80 yen you could buy a taxi ride or a bottle of beer. If you had $10 to spend, it was a good bet that it would be enough to get you where you wanted to go.

Silly me. I wanted to go to Vietnam.

The official dollar-piaster exchange rate of those days escapes me. In fact, it escaped most everyone. I vaguely remember pocket-change transfers with turban-wearing fellows in dim doorways. Greenbacks were as good as gold on the streets of Saigon.

And it was the streets and sidewalks of Saigon, not the PX or commissary, where the shopping was done. There was nothing covert about the so-called black market. It was well-lit and wide open in the steaming sunshine.

Need fatigues or jungle boots? The shelves were bare on the bases. At the market in Cholon -- the Chinese quarter -- any size, any quantity was available.

War news, for the most part, was served up to us downtown at what was known as the "5 O'Clock Follies.'' This was a daily briefing held in a theater-like room with a stage. Military officers with microphones, display boards and pointers would explain who bombed or shot up how much and where it was done.

Occasionally, an actual fighting man would be hauled up on stage and, looking awkward and uncomfortable, would try to add a bit of reality to the numbers and statistics. This is where the famous "body count'' figures were announced.

Ironically, it was at the follies that I saw for the only time Sean Flynn, the son of the swashbuckling movie hero, Errol Flynn. He was tall and looked remarkably like his father. It was unusual to see him in such a place because he was known as a correspondent-photographer who spent most of his time in the field. As far as I know, he's still missing and presumed dead.

Another brush with celebrity came covering the 1965 Bob Hope Christmas show. Besides Hope, there were comic Jerry Colonna, with his wild eyes and walrus mustache; singer Anita Bryant, later to become a noted gay-basher; blond, vicacious actress Carroll Baker, and the actress and dancer Joey Heatherton.

I was feeling mighty important covering all these stars, and it was Heatherton who brought me down to earth.

We were aboard the aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga. I was one of a gaggle of guys with cameras following Heatherton as she graciously chatted with members of the crew. I was looking through the camera snapping away in the dim light when she veered and headed right for me.

As I lowered my camera, she pointed at it and said, "Isn't that wire supposed to be connected to something?''

I had failed to attach the flash; none of my pictures came out.

A more profound photography tip came from celebrated combat cameraman Horst Faas. It was a piece of advice that probably saved my life.

I had been on the fringes of some fighting but had yet to receive my baptism of bullets. At lunch one day in a French restaurant near the Associated Press bureau in Saigon, Faas was describing one of his techniques for taking photos while under fire.

Fortunately, I was paying attention. Drop to the ground on your back, he explained. That way your body stays low and you make less of a target, but you still have the mobility to look around and aim your camera.

Not long after that I had a chance to test the technique.

The 12-man squad I had been with all night at a listening post was on its way back to home base about dawn when it stumbled into a force of 50 to 60 Viet Cong.

When the shooting started, somehow Faas' advice popped into my mind. I dropped to the ground on my back and started taking pictures. Naturally, most of the photographs I snapped were taken from the same distinct angle -- from down low looking up. If I had been standing, I undoubtedly would have been cut down.

The fighting became intense, and I had to drop my camera and grab a weapon. Actually, I picked up three. All M-16s. And each one jammed.

When it was over and the squad (five of the 12 had been wounded) was saved from annihilation, a crusty sergeant from the company that came to our rescue asked me if that was the first time I'd been under fire.

I said it was the first time I'd been shot at with only 12 people around me to fight back. He grinned wickedly and said, "Yeah, but that's when it gets good.''

I didn't include that quote in my story. It didn't seem appropriate.

But it's haunted me for nearly 30 years.

I ended the story by saying that the men who survived the fight unwounded would be back on patrol that night. And I said they would probably be there tonight and every other night. I couldn't know for sure then, but it turned out to be a fairly accurate observation.

Eventually, the nightmares subside, but they never disappear.