Khe Sanh Veterans Association Inc.

Red Clay
Newsletter of the Veterans who served at Khe Sanh Combat Base,
Hill 950, Hill 881, Hill 861, Hill 861-A, Hill 558
Lang-Vei and Surrounding Area

Issue 51     Fall 2001

Memoirs

Home
In This Issue
Noted From The Editor and Board    Incoming     
Short Rounds     In Memoriam     Reunion 2002    
A Sprinkling Of Your Poetry

This Is What The Corps
Is all About

John-Boy,

    Good to hear from you. Imagine current events are a hot topic in your classroom. As you can imagine, your brother Marines at Camp Le-Jeune are biting at the bit to receive a mission in the first war of the 21st Century. It will come but not until around Thanksgiving/Christmas time from the tea leaves I'm reading. It will kill me to see them go, leaving me back to guard my driveway. I Went to New York City on Friday, 26 September for a Memorial Service for my college roommate (Joe Zucalla) who was lost in the WTC. You should remember Joe coming to the house with Sal Lentene to pick me up for the drive to the University of Dayton. An extremely moving and profound day.

    Denny and I walked from Penn Station up 5th Avenue to 50th Street to get to St. Patrick's Cathedral. From the "Missing Posters" everywhere to the letters from school children all over these Unites States, it was the most emotional "hump" I was ever fortunate enough to participate in. The change in the people in the "Big Apple" is simply amazing. Red, White, and Blue everywhere with everyone being courteous and polite, not knocking anyone down as they walk the Manhattan sidewalks. I had to keep looking around to assure myself I had not been transported to Dublin or Madrid! The cathedral was packed with fraternity brothers, the gathered 'Familia de Zucalla', friends of Joe from all over the city and Long Island, and just good Americans who did not know Joe but wanted to show one of the many aggrieved families that they care.

    After the funeral mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral, about 20 of the fraternity brothers went to "Callahan's Irish Pub and Grill" for a DGO wake. After two hours of liquid courage and intelligence, Denny, 4 other fraternity brothers and I went down to pay our respects at Ground Zero. One of my frat bros, Jerry Sampson, is a retired Nassau County Police Officer. He tried to use his badge to get us through the barriers but no joy. I then decided to use my only trump card. Broke out my retired military ID and went up to the cop and said, "I'm Colonel  Williams of the USMC, and my old friend who was a soldier died in there. I'd like to go in to pay my respects!" The cop read the ID Card and then snapped to attention, saying, "Semper Fi, Sir!" Turns out he was in 1st Marines. The cop next to him turns and says, "Joe, I didn't know you were a Marine. I was a Marine too, in 2nd Tanks. Semper Fi !"

    Joe then takes me over to his Watch Sergeant and tells him who I am while handing over the ID Card. The Watch Sergeant reads the card, looks at me and says, "Semper Fi, Sir." After shaking hands and finding out he was in 9th Marines in Vietnam, he hollers over to a young cadet, "Hey rookie, get over here. Take the Colonel and his men anywhere they want to go." After clearing the barricades and acknowledging the salutes of the National Guardsmen who have now figured out who/what is going down, the rookie looks at my US/USMC Flag lapel pin and asks me if I was a Marine. When I answer in the affirmative, he says, "Semper Fi, Sir." Turns out he was in 6th Comm Bn up until a year ago. As you can imagine, my normally over-inflated Marine ego was even more inflated given this most recent affirmation of the power of the Marine Corps Mafia and a simple phrase that means so much to a very special band of brothers.

    To sum up this event, being at the WTC with the smoke, acrid smell, and total devastation, and looking in the thousand yard stares of the rescue workers who refuse to give up -- all of this imparts a entirely new appreciation for humankind and a total revulsion for the damage that was done to our fellow citizens and country in the name of God. It also fills your eyes with tears and your heart with pride to see how the New Yorkers and so many other volunteers from all around the nation have joined together and refuse to be beaten. Finally, it makes you appreciate even more the true meaning of our beloved Corps. It is a family, and the words "Once a Marine, Always a Marine" are as valid today as they were when first spoken. My best to Kerry and the kids. Rest easy tonight John, your brother Marines are on the watch and ready as always to serve.

Love and "Semper Fidelis,'
Mike

(The author is a retired Marine General.)

*****

How I Avoided the Draft

    On the day after my 18th birthday, a couple of my friends and I drove the 12 miles to Carthage, Missouri where our county Selective Service office was located and signed up for the draft. Pauline, who had been the secretary of the board since at least World War I, took us through the process and thanked us for being so prompt.

    Six months later, I enlisted in the Marine Corps Reserve. Notice was sent to the Selective Service and I should have been reclassified 1D. At the same time, I received a scholarship to college. The Marine Corps agreed that we could delay active duty and if I was doing OK in school, I could enter the PLC program and get a commission. The university sent a notice to the draft board that I was enrolled. I got a draft card that said I was 2S (Student deferment) not 1D (member of the Armed Forces) Of course, being 18, I didn't know the difference.

    I went to my first summer of PLC in 1962 and returned for the second six weeks in the summer of 1963. About three weeks into the cycle, my folks sent me a draft notice from Pauline and the Selective Service Board informing me to report for induction. Of course, I did the worst thing possible. I went to see my DI for his advice. It was succinct and to the point. "Get the %$% out of my office, maggot! I have pissed on ants who had more brains than you do. You %$%$ this up. Now, un%$%$ it!"

    Fortunately, the platoon commander heard about the problem, called me into his office and told me that the Corps would advise the draft board that I was in the Marines and stood a 1% chance of becoming an officer. I thought that all sounded pretty good and I forgot about it.

    At the end of that summer, I entered law school on another scholarship and they sent a notice to my draft board. I got another draft card with a 2S deferment. I didn't question it. In my last semester of law school, I received another induction notice. This one ordered me to report for a pre-induction physical in Detroit. I sent a copy of my ID showing that I was a 1st Lieutenant in the USMC to the draft board but got no response. I tried calling but didn't get through. I went to Detroit and gave my ID to one of the Army NCOs who were running batches of draftees through the physical exam process. He was not impressed. About an hour later while I was turning my head to cough while some doctor was probing my privates, an Army officer appeared. He allowed as how there had been a mistake, gave me back my ID and told me I could get dressed and go back to school. He said they would correct my records with the Selective Service.

    Two years later;' during the Tet offensive in 1968, the gunny came in with the mail and said "Skipper, it looks like you've been drafted." He handed me another notice from my draft board which my folks had forwarded. This time I wrote a letter to Pauline the secretary, enclosed a photo of me in the Nam, a picture of my ID card, and told them that if they wanted to order me to return to The World for induction, let me know and I'd be on the next plane.

    A month later I got another letter from Pauline. She apologized for herself and all the Selective Service Board in Carthage, Missouri. It seems, she said, that there was another Charles E. Patterson, born the same day in our little county of about 10,000 souls. The other Charles E. had been living on my 1D deferment for the past 9 years, and they thought I was the one who had stayed in school and then out of reach to avoid the draft. She said they were going to see to it that he became a member of the active duty Armed Forces.

    I never knew what happened to the other Charles E., but his name is not on the wall, so maybe he made it. But given his luck, I'd guess he probably skated.

Charles Patterson

*****

The Sanctuary for Unloved Heroes

I see by your gravestone that you were only 19
When you joined the dead
heroes in Leatherneck green
Well I hope you died quick
and I hope you died clean
Or Lance Corporal Wynn
was it slow and obscene? (1)

(1) Paraphrased from "The Green Fields of France" by Eric Bogle

The Morphine Dream

    For some, it was the time of their life; and for some, the time of their death. There were a hundred  ways to kill in that place, and killing begets killing, so you could end up on either end of that deal. The time of their life was a year and a month and in that short but interminable period, young men died or grew old. We who grew old remember our dead.

    The dead waited with infinite patience, while we wounded and not yet dead flew away in a morphine dream. It was triage at the Khe Sanh airstrip. It was January 1968.

    He didn't know he was between deaths. He squinted in the harsh light that burned through the ribbed glass diffuser of a surgeon's overhead lamp. The glare contracted the surgeon's pupils and made them look like the tips on a dentist's drill. They bore down on the boy, penetrating the morphine fog. He said, "Hey Doc, will you save the bullet for me? I lost the other one that they took out of my leg this morning." Above the gauze mask the doctor's eyes crinkled at the corners. The boy had made this very busy man smile, and it was a kindly voice that answered, "We'll do our best son. Now try to relax. We are going to put this rubber mask over your face. Breathe deeply and count backwards from ten."

    He wanted to watch, so he fooled them. He counted forwards. He made it to about four and he thought that was pretty funny. They were murmuring and clinking steel tools in kidney-shaped pans, and they didn't know that the boy could hear them. It didn't hurt when they cut him, but he could feel it and he could hear the scalpel slicing the flesh on his shoulder. It was the sensation you would feel if your lip was numb and you slit it with a razor blade. He frowned under the ether mask and then...he was sucked down into darkness. All in a dream. He was back home on the prairies, and he had fallen into a creek full of chocolate pudding, his favorite. He was on his back, pinned down like a butterfly, his wings stuck to the tacky dessert. Along the bank of the chocolate stream he heard groans.

    The boy opened his eyes and looked down a row of lumpy cots, barely visible in the greenish gloom of a Quonset hut. There were four lines of occupied bunks in the deep room. Stainless steel rods with curved necks holding intravenous bags hovered by each bed like glimmering skeletons on wheels. The head of his bunk was against the wall, his covered feet facing a pathway between the rows. Shadows patrolled the aisles and periodically shined flashlights on the metal cots and read charts on clipboards. Light, dark, light, dark. Cannon were booming in the distance.

    His drugged mind kaleidoscoped in the half-light, mixing cause and effect and past and present. Had it been hours or days since the firefight? It was a good fight and a good day to die. He didn't because Lt. Grenville Suteliffe used an M79 grenade launcher to blow away the gunman that was throwing down on Sgt. John Frescura. The Green Beret Sergeant was making the machine gun charge that gave the boy the cover he needed to get away from the next bullet. He was expecting that third bullet, that third one with his name on it. And three is a charm. Every grunt knows that.

    From Khe Sanh to this murky room with his two lucky wounds. He lay there unable to move, inhaling the pukey odor of ether mixed with whiffs of aromatic antiseptics. In the temporal confusion, he thought, Man I got it made. I got in under the wire and I beat the odds. John Wayne wounds, groovy. I'm OK here, this is a safe place, a safe place to sleep. He wanted a safe place to sleep more than anything. A spidery trickle of blood leaked of his bandages and ran along his arm. A second later another dribble scurried down to his elbow and added itself to the growing puddle. He was afloat in the stuff and he was cold. He could see the Corpsmen walking by the foot of his bed. He strained to call out but the sound wouldn't go past his throat. Not even a whisper. It was like trying to shout away a nightmare to wake up. It never works.

    Then he realized that he was the only one that knew. This was the way he was going to die. He was going to quietly bleed to death. Dark figures wandered back and forth, oblivious to him as though he were already a corpse, while his soul ran screaming around his body and the devil sat on his chest. He thought, if I go to sleep I'd die. If I die, they will think I'm just sleeping. It's the same thing. Sleeping isn't what kills you, so I should be able to sleep just a little. That seemed to make sense. The devil nodded and grinned. A Corpsman shined a light on his face and asked, How ya doing guy? The boy didn't answer. The Corpsman pulled the sodden blanket back and then looked at the wet sheen on his fingers. He clamped a hand on the shoulder and said, What's your name? The boy could feel the answer lurking in his mind but it wouldn't come out. He thought, I'I1 tell him tomorrow. The voice said, where are you from? He knew that one. He said, South Dakota...in his head. The bed started to drift down the long room and came to rest under the surgeon's lamp again. Then...the darkness again.

The Sanctuary

    The next morning I woke up outdoors to a sunny day and a pleasant temperature. I could hear the sounds of Danang in the background. Buses, trucks, children, boat traffic, and jet afterburners kicking in-- the usual stuff. I was alive and the first thing I tried was my voice. I said, Damn it. I liked Danang. I had been AWOL here a few times, checking out the skivy houses and getting a hot meal, even steaks and ice cream from navy people at this same Naval Support Activity Base. Hell, just yesterday I had been able to walk into this place looking forward to walking out again. I was sort of shot up and limping a little, but I was full of youthful enthusiasm and a few jabs of morphine. Now I was strapped to a stretcher and two Corpsmen were carrying me to a helicopter. I said, Where are we going? They told me I was going to the USS Sanctuary for recovery. As we bounced along, I was reminded of the wagon rides my mother used to give me when I was a kid. I could lay back and watch the clouds floating by and feel the gentle vibration as the little wheels bumped over the dirt road. Vibrating helicopter, Navy Corpsman holding I.V. bags, horizontal bodies on stretchers, the smell of hydraulic fluid and chopper fuel, whop whop whop, and a gentle thump as we landed. The South China Sea was the bluest blue, and the USS Sanctuary was sparkling white. They pulled my stretcher off the helicopter and set me on the deck. I felt like a speck of dirt on a wedding cake.

    On a gurney and into an elevator, long and narrow, built to hold stretchers. Nearly dark after the morning sun, a light bulb on the ceiling had wire mesh over it. The elevator driver turned a wheel on a panel and then turned to look at me. He said, We are going down to x-ray, and he smiled. Later I sat on a stool and Lt. Cmdr. Hartzog pulled stained gauze out of my shoulder. Dried blood was caked and flaky down to my elbow. It seemed like he pulled yards of salve and antiseptic saturated cloth from the wound.

    I looked at the open gash, shaped like the number seven, and saw the layers of my own body. Pale epidermis, a yellowish layer of fatty tissue, lightly marbled raw meat and a small ooze of blood. I said, using a few expletives, Did you mess up my leg like this too? He reminded me that I was no longer in the field, that I was an enlisted man on his ship, and that I would watch my language. I said, Aye, aye sir, with as much humility as a Marine is allowed to show to the Navy. I asked, Did they save the bullet? He showed me the X-rays. The bullet was still in my shoulder, in two pieces. He told me to take a shower and to run hot water into the wounds for as long as I could stand it -- and then a little longer. Afterwards, he repacked the wounds. We did this for a couple days and then he left the gashes exposed to the air to cure like beef.

    After the first session a Hospital Corpsman took me to a bunk in a recovery ward. I had a sling on my arm and a bandage around my thigh. He told me to take a top bunk. Bullshit. I was a Marine, wounded in combat, in pain, and this non-combatant was telling me to climb a ladder. A guy in a bunk against the bulkhead said, Hey doc, cut that Marine some slack. He's been hit in the leg and arm. he shouldn't have to climb a ladder. Get him a lower bunk. I thought, Damm right, and looked over to see who was talking. He was a good-looking kid. My age. Blond curly hair. Blue eyes. He was lying spreadeagled on his bunk. Both of his legs were slit open to the bone from the inside of the knees to the groin. His testicles had been blown away and a plastic tube was draining his urine. He nodded at me and smiled.

    Indescribable embarrassment and shame hit me like a chill, and I wanted to hide my face. I sat on the floor and cried. The Corpsman said, What's the matter with you. Are you hurt? I didn't care. I didn't care what anybody said about me. They couldn't have thought less of me than I did anyway. They put me in a bottom bunk next to a guy that had plastic tubes plugged into his chest. The tubes went to an electric pump on the floor. The transparent tubes had little clots of stringy blood trapped in the loops and whenever he breathed the pump would whirl and the clots would wave like seaweed. He had seven entry wounds and I asked him what had happened. He wheezed out the story. He was a Corpsman and had been trying to save a Marine. He and the Marine had been pinned down on an open paddy and he said that every time he moved, a sniper would shoot him again. He said he had to stop moving for a half a day before they could come to get him.

    The guy in the bunk on the other side of me was a Korean Marine. His right leg was wrapped up like a mummy down to the knee where it ended. He would look at the stump and bang it against the side rail and swear under his breath. His life had been in the ROK Marines and that had ended when they threw away his leg. He was mad as hell, and everybody was afraid of him. They said he was suicidal. There were row upon row of stories like that, and they came and they went over the twelve days that I was there. Thankfully, I can't remember most of them. I remember the nurse. I bet we all do.

    My therapy routine changed on about the third or fourth day. They numbed the wounds and sowed them shut with piano wire. The wire poked through my clothes and hung up whenever I moved. I moved around quite a bit after a few days. I stood on the fantail and watched Vietnam go by as we sailed toward Chu Lai and back again. I walked the main deck and took the elevator to the decks that I was allowed on. Mainly, I went to the ice cream machine and filled a Dixie cup with the swirl stuff and went outside and ate it with a little wooden spoon. I met a Marine there with the hair shaved off the top of his stitched head. He was carrying a helmet that had a bullet hole dead center in the forehead. He said the round had punched through, hit him in the forehead, traveled under his scalp and lodged in the back of his neck. He said he had been knocked unconscious but had kept hold of the helmet and was never going to let it go because it was a sign from God. He said there was no way he was going back ashore either and that was also a message from God.

    I met two Marines with drawn .45s on the elevator. They had a guy with them that had a block of C4 and a detonator. I didn't have time to get off the elevator, so I asked the guy what was going on as we went up. He said they had sent him out here to see the shrink, and he had brought the C4 with him. What's the big deal? They walked him to the fantail and he threw it overboard. He asked me if I would come to see him once in awhile down in the cage. He said it was pretty groovy, but everybody down there was nuts and he didn't have anybody to talk to. I went down there a few times, the guy with the helmet and I, and we watched these guys wander around in the cage. It was scary as hell and it is as close as I ever want to get to true madness. I never did see the C4 guy again. When the sling came off my arm, I was assigned to operate the elevator. The Navy works in four-hour increments and working to a routine wag a comfort. Every day I heard, Now hear this. Sweepers, sweepers, man your brooms. Give the ship a clean sweep-down, fore and aft. Now sweepers, sweepers. The announcement was preceded and followed by a funny little whistle.

    On the elevator, you see the casualties as they first arrive. Tet was a very busy time, and they started coming in directly from the field. No intermediate stops at Danang. A guy shot in the chest was rolled in and his blood splattered Corpsman ran beside the gurney with his hand over the wound. His young eyes were scared as he fought to breathe, and I put my hand on his shoulder and said, We're going down to X-ray and it will be all right now. He died looking at my sorry face. I wept again. A sailor swabbed the blood from the elevator floor. The Corpsmen and doctors and nurses lived with this horror day after day, every day.

    Lt. Commander Hartzog cut the wire stitches with a stainless steel snipper and then pulled them out with a pair of pliers. He swabbed away the beads of blood and said it looked pretty good. He said he could keep me on board the ship for another week, maybe two, at the most. He stood up to go and I said, No, Sir. I want to leave as soon as possible.

    He sat back and shook his head. Why Son? Why do you boys do that? We talked for a while and I explained that my buddies were back there, and they might need me. He signed my release and told me to take care of my wounds and wished me good luck. I hope he knows I made it.

    They go unsung, those good people of the Sanctuary, those people who cared when the rest of the world wanted to forget us.

    We were their special children, and they loved us all. We torn and mangled boys from the War Without Heroes.(2)

Lacey Lahren

(2) "War Without Heroes," by David Douglas Duncan

*****

Editor's note:
The following is the first part of a two-part series of the memoirs of Madame Poilane, who with her family ran the Coffee plantation at Khe Sanh.

Memories of Vietnam, 1951-1968

    Khe Sanh village came about as a result of the arrival of the planters. Before, there were only the Montagnards of the "Bru" tribe who were dispersed in the villages that were accessible only by the back roads. There was a French woman living, I believe, with a Vietnamese man. Since the development of the plantations, the Vietnamese population came about slowly and one could be able to figure between 1,500 and 2,000 inhabitants in 1968.

The planters were five in number:

    Upon our return in 1957, the Fathers, having been notified, constructed a building for themselves and gave us back the plantation as agreed. One French Father (Father Corentin who since died in France) and some Vietnamese brothers stayed to help with the plantation work. When I arrived on December 21, 1957 in the middle of the monsoon season, I was a little afraid to see the state in which the plantation was -- especially the big 16-room mansion which was uninhabitable. The Fathers had to cultivate and harvest the plantation, and that's all -- no reparations, since we did not know what would become of Vietnam. Father Roman, another French Benedictine who accompanied us, did me the honor of showing me the plantation. He told me, "You will be a queen here." I held back my tears, for all I was seeing there were holes in the ceilings and in the floors.

    There were no more doors or windows. The wind could easily come in. In the first floor room, which was our bedroom, the ceiling was held up with branches from the coffee trees. As there was no bed, my father-in-law gave us two iron beds, and we set up mats on them. The main part of our luggage had not arrived yet from Saigon, and we only had a few things with us.

    Our first meal consisted of bread with salted "bridel" butter and bananas. There were only two bowls and very few plates and dishes, some canned food that was barely edible, especially the peas. In view of this lack of supplies, we went to have our first meal at my father-in-law's at Khe Sanh. The chauffeur came to pick us up with an old winded T23 Citroen automobile. Encountering the little comfort that existed at my father-in-law's home, we had our meals at our own home with the arrival of our thi ba named Ninh. Father Corentin had hired her for us. She was clean and honest which was good for us.

    Our first Christmas was very simple and rather sad for us who just made the trip from France to Vietnam on the boat Le Laos and then stayed at the Hotel Majestic in Saigon. This was too much of a change for us. Thus, we found again the poverty of those who were around us.

    It was necessary to go down to the Province of Quang-Tri, 77 kilometers (almost 48 miles) from Khe Sanh to shop and to buy the minimum to live in a more decent manner. My husband did not dare to venture out too much; he managed the plantation alone for the first time. It was necessary to work for a year to see how it would turn out. We were to show Vietnamese identification papers in order to go about. From Dong Ha to Khe Sanh there were no less than 14 barriers to cross, showing these papers. Most of the time, soldiers would look very seriously at the reverse side of these papers. They did not want to show that they did not know how to read. We said nothing and tried only to stay calm. Later on, the name Poilane served as our passport.

    Before going any farther I would like to say that Khe Sanh is connected to town -- that is to say Dong Ha -- by Route 9 which was constructed by the French Military Corps of Engineers. The road went as far as Lao Bao, but before the events of the Viet Cong and the Japanese, it went as far as Laos. When it was impossible to come down toward Dong Ha, the coffee was sold at Savannacket in Laos. When my father-in-law arrived for the first time, he was able to come as far as 41 kilometers (about 25 miles) by the river, then on foot along the path that existed then, having been cut out by the Montagnards who went to visit each other from village to village.

    I am going to continue to enumerate the important people who were with us: the Vietnamese Protestant minister who was there before 1955 without having any followers. He came back in 1958 and wound up having a beautiful house for prayers and meetings with the Montagnards. No Vietnamese joined him again. Then the American Protestant linguists arrived around 1960 or 1961. They did a tremendous job and began to transcribe the "Bru" language that was never written down. With the Bru, they began to make little elementary books for teaching the Montagnards to read and write their language. Then they started translating the books. Our relationship excelled with this young American couple (the Millers) who lived in a straw hut constructed in a village. They had much courage since this was just about complete destitution for them. The Fathers of Foreign Missions of Paris arrived March 3, 1964. First was Father Poncet who was named parish priest (he was later killed February 13, 1968 at Hue during the Tet Offensive in the middle of a road by the Viet Cong.) Next was Father Mauvais who came to replace him, and in May of 1967 the nuns of Saint Paul of Chartres moved in near the priests. They, too, came to take care of the Montagnards.

    For us, rather for me, I was beginning a completely new life. My husband, Felix, who was born in Khe Sanh and had always lived there, was happy to meet his father again and also to see his plantation and country once more. The Montagnards had been informed of the return of the "boss" and for those who knew him, it was a great joy because with his return, there Was also the promise of steady jobs. Visits were numerous. One often came to see the wife of the cau, a Vietnamese word meaning "young man of good family." Numerous gifts, in the form of new rice, were offered to us. I remember a nice gesture: upon my arrival at the plantation house (named Petite Fleur), I found a pretty bouquet of flowers. The young boy in charge of watching the house knew that the wife of the master was arriving. In my distress, this gesture moved me very much.

    I had a lot of trouble getting used to this new life in the middle of the underbrush. Above all, it was the lack of even the slightest comforts that left me unable to adapt. In this large house full of holes, one could not consider anything to do in such conditions. And furthermore, there was the food to which I had trouble adapting. We had a very clean cook who did her best, but I simply could not stand eating rice at every meal. She tried to prepare rice for me in the form of bread, but nonetheless, it was still always rice! Each night I would cry and ask my husband to leave again; I said that I would not become accustomed to this life. Felix used to say to me then that it was necessary to make a harvest, and then we'd see about it. The trip would be expensive; it would be necessary to make the harvest and then sell it. We would see then if we would return. He knew very well what he was doing. He knew well what the country did to each person. In such a paradise, because that is what this land was, he knew that I would let myself be taken by the enchantment and would stay. It was true.

    The first harvest of coffee was a little Arabica and weighed 800 kilos (about 363 lbs) then came several tons of the Robusta. And around April 15, good weather had arrived and the harvest of the Chari was going to begin. Before explaining how the harvest of the coffee went, I would like to describe it. The Arabica is a real little shrub, not more than two meters in height. It is very fragile and was destroyed by a disease called leaf blight. This disease showed itself by the appearance of tiny mushrooms under the leaves. When this was discovered, the damage was done since we did not have the products to take care of this disease. The plantation produced, before the onset of the disease, 25 tons a year. This coffee was harvested during the monsoon and thus did not have the sun to dry it. It was prepared by the "wet" method. It was placed in large cement basins full of water and left to swell with water and to ferment. Then, it was shelled and the beans could dry in a room known as the "hot room." The heat did the rest in thoroughly drying it. The coffee could then be put in bags before preparing it to be sold, removing the outer skin and sorting it so that there were only perfect beans being sold.

    The Robusta was just as the name indicates, a more robust coffee. It was bigger, as it was already a small tree and the harvest took place at the beginning of the month of January. It was not prepared, however, by the wet method. Instead, we dry it by leaving it first to ferment, then putting it in the hot room to dry it. Once dry, it is placed sideways until the time comes to prepare it to be sold. We produced 2-3 tons of this a year. The hot room is a large room with trays on which the coffee is placed for drying with long dug-out galleries which are covered with sheet-irons to conduct the heat. A large furnace in which wood is burned produces this heat. The furnace runs day and night. The coffee is turned at least twice a day so when the upper layer dries, we can continue to dry the rest.

    Next is the Chari. It was my father-in-law who brought back nine beans of this coffee from Tonkin, and with those nine beans, started this plantation. As its name indicates, this coffee originates in Africa in Oubangui Chari. It is a tree with a rather fat trunk and long branches with large leaves of a beautiful dark green. It can reach three to four meters in height. It is a very robust coffee and it adapts well to the red earth of Khe Sanh. Generally, the coffee tree grows in red earth.

    The harvest of Chari is done from the 15th of April to the end of September. It is our largest output as we produce about 20 tons a year. The harvest is done on the spot by the Montagnards -- those here leave in the morning and return in the afternoon. Starting at about 3:30 in the afternoon, I begin to measure the harvest of each coffee. A starting price is set: $10 a touque (a Vietnamese measurement). A touque of petroleum is 20 liters. The coffee bean has the form of a red cherry, which is picked bean by bean as to try not to scratch any little pieces of wood from the coffee tree, because the tree would then suffer. It is an art to pick the ripe coffee. It takes a lot of time to gather each bean but the Bru are very gifted for this type of Work. I watch only to make sure they don't pick any green beans. They must mature, and then they will be gathered later. In the middle of the harvest, we have 120 to 150 workers and this gives an enormous amount of work, not just in measuring, but in the payment and sale of rice and other products: salt, dried fish, and a shrimp paste called jourc which smells rather bad. It is necessary to get used to the smell in order to eat this product, but it is otherwise very good. However, it exists in different levels of quality.

    After the payment for the daily harvest, I begin to nurse Montagnards who have numerous sores on their legs. Much conjunctivitis occurs at the time of the sale in Laos, the io nam. The dust is responsible in most cases, and it is easily cured with eyewash. There is also a lot of dysentery for which sulfamides and other medications are given, depending on the severity of the case. I am anticipating a little; I want to speak again about the coffee, which is our principal activity, not counting all the fruit of the country that we were introduced to by Monsieur Eugene Poilane.

    The coffee, once picked, is left on a cement surface. It remains in a heap for the fermentation of the beans, which resemble a fat cherry in which the pulp is very thick. When the mildew forms very lightly, it is time to put the coffee on the surface and, several times a day, our Vietnamese workers rake through the coffee, using rakes and their bare feet, to aerate the coffee, which will begin to dry, becoming black. Each night, it will be put back into piles based on its degree of dryness and covered with corrugated iron to protect it in case of a sudden storm. When it is dry, it will then be grayish in color. The coffee will be placed in bags in a room, waiting for the time to be prepared to be sold.

    One cannot imagine the work that is required to prepare the coffee before it is poured in a cup to enjoy! The harvesting of Chari is the highpoint of the year on the plantation, because it is then that we have the most workers. These Vietnamese workers coming from the plains, generally from Dong Ha and the area surrounding the plantation and who live on the premises with us, did all of the work drying the coffee and taking care of the plantation. Actually, the coffee trees require having their highest and dead branches removed, as well as little branches called "gourmands" which exhaust the tree. Each day the workers would be on the plantation with Felix to see what had to be done on such and such a section planted with coffee trees. The plantation was divided into planted hectares, separated one from the other by wide alleys for easier access by car and foot.

    They would look to see if there were any trees that were too old or unproductive that had to be replaced. For that, we would have a nursery for young plants and each year in May the young plants would be put into prepared holes at least one month in advance to allow the soil to be aerated. The planting of young coffee trees required a lot of work and care, and it was necessary to survey their progress. In general, everything grew well in the rich soil of our plantation, but it was just as possible that a more robust tree would replace a vegetating plant.

    Two times a year, the Montagnards would weed the whole plantation. This work would be done bit by bit, and then the price would be discussed according to the number of trees to be cleaned and the height of the plants. It is necessary for me to say that in periods of monsoons one saw vegetation grow right before one's eyes and I experimented with banana trees. We had many fruit trees: orange and mandrian trees of many species and banana trees with many different types of bananas. There were avocado trees, mango trees, persimmon trees of many species; one of which, a royal persimmon tree, had a little stem of green leaves. The jacquiers could be eaten as vegetables. There were jacquiers with wet fruit and jacquiers with dry fruit. I liked this fruit enormously and the Montagnards, knowing this, asked me if they could pick these fruits. They would come and together we would enjoy this delicious fruit. There were papaya trees, lychee trees of very different kinds; also juicy limes and durians, fruits well liked by the Chinese. This fruit smells very bad, and it is necessary to hold one's nose before eating it. I never succeeded in being able to endure that odor and because of this, I deprived myself of a very dellcious fruit. If you have a durian or ducian (the two words are interchangeable) in the house, it is impossible to sleep because the smell takes your breath away. The Chinese buy these fruits at the price of gold. There were longanes, kola nuts very prized by the Sengalese, and areca-nuts, which are used to prepare betel with the coca leaves we also had. We had superb mango trees, but alas, they did not bear any fruit.

    Felix succeeded in growing a pepper plant. This little plant is a type of parasite since it needs support for life and bearing of its fruit. The pepper is gathered in red grains and comes in two forms, white pepper and black pepper, the better of the two being white. The majority of tea plants served our own purposes; we sold very little of it. My father-in-law had succeeded in acclimating prune trees. The fruits were sold green because the Vietnamese would like to eat them in this fashion with salt and nuoc-mam (briny fish). We used to sell mandrian and oranges by the piece and there were an enormous amount, but one of every two years of harvest was even more abundant. While descending towards the streams where we used to get our water, there were superb mandrian trees. Our children, accompanied by the Montagnard children, would amuse themselves the moment harvest came by picking the green fruits to include oranges. Seven per cent of these fruits were truly delicious and gave a lot of juice. We also had large fruit trees called "abrasins" which bore nuts that were sold to make oil. We did not sell these nuts often because the people were not interested in these fruits. This was very unfortunate for us.

    In thinking about this tour of the fruit trees, I forget undoubtedly about how the red soil was so rich that everything could grow. The French and Japanese species of plants and trees, introduced into the country by my father-in-law, were observed in his experimental garden at Land Tram. The President of the Republic, Ngo Dinh Diem, came to visit this garden in July 1959. That day, I had in my hand a notebook containing all the species and the observations made by my father-in-law. This manuscript was sent to the Museum of Natural History of Paris.

Our copy was lost at Khe Sanh at the time of the offensive in 1968. I regret this because in it were numerous species of trees listed along with useful observations. The museum did not want to entrust me with a copy with which I could make another copy. It's a shame that the manual could not have been printed or published!

    During my pregnancy, I saw a gynecologist twice since I spent nearly all of my time at the plantation. I gave myself urine analysis, and everything went as well as could be. I continued to work on the crop harvest without further problems. The plantation and the harvest continued at its rhythm; the maintenance was taken care of as usual. I had begun to look after the Montagnards and to manage things well. In addition to that, I had also begun to learn from their children, using hand signs, how to speak their language. I wrote, as I understood them.

    But in July, I was expecting once again a second child, which was very comforting. That year, on September 16, 1962 we had a very violent typhoon. This date is carved in my memory because I had never before seen such a destructive typhoon. Our house survived the storm, but all the roads to the plantation were cut off as the trees lay across them. We had to disentangle them, all which was an enormous job. In Khe Sanh, my father-in-law's house no longer had a roof and the rain and wind came in everywhere. But in these tropical regions, one is used to such violence in nature and quickly restores whatever is damaged or destroyed. That is what happened and life went on.

    However, it was decided for my safety that I should wait to give birth in my stepfather's house at Hue. The workers came to arrange things. The gynecologist gave me shots to take every day during the first five months. Then it was blood tests every month because Felix and I had different RH factors. We had discovered an abnormality only thirteen days before the birth of Francoise. One took blood samples from me just for precaution.

    This worried us a little because doctors in Vietnam were not properly equipped. Since we were so concerned, they gave me four tests instead of three to reassure us at the blood bank in Hue. Felix then started to come each weekend, generally from Saturday afternoon at noon to Monday morning. Thus, in this way, he spent the weekend with us. I had with me the wife of our cook and my little sister-in-law, Pierrette, to keep me company. Without any abnormality, we were overjoyed to have a very big boy weighing 5 kilos (11 lbs), Jean-Marie. I quickly returned from the clinic to stay a few days at Hue and to prepare for our return to the plantation. I nursed my two children for only a few weeks as I did have milk, but it was not substantial, so they had to have their bottles.

    It was at this time that the attack (supposedly by the Vietnamese) against the Buddhists took place following false rumiors that they shot into a crowd gathered to celebrate the feast of Buddha. This caused a big commotion in Hue and in other cities. In Saigon, there were a few Buddhist monks who burned themselves in the public squares to show that the Catholics (represented by the President of the Republic and by his brothers) persecuted them. One of the brothers of President Diem was Archbishop of Hue. Someone spread a rumor that he had buried Buddhists alive in his garden. People were actually gullible enough to believe these tales and went there to see if it was true. This, for a very long time, made life in Vietnam very disturbing and annoying.

    Afterwards, they discovered that among the Buddhist monks, there were parties of Viet Cong hidden under the orange tunic. In this way, they could be informed of everything that happened in the southern part of the country. We had returned quickly to the plantation to flee from these fanatics who became dangerous. Public opinion quickly becomes crazy with such storytellers. Once at our land at Cu-Bach (such was the name of the plantation), we were very peaceful and far from this turmoil. The harvest of the Chari had begun, and there was plenty of work to be done. Pierrette came to the house to help me, since I was still tired after giving birth to a big baby.

    We took in a young girl who helped us as well to replace our cook's wife who felt too old. Life returned to normal at the plantation. Many friends came to visit and experience a little coolness, especially during school vacation. We also had friends who came up to hunt deer, tigers, and also the wild boar, which had caused a lot of havoc when it had gone into a section of coffee trees. It was worse than a tractor. There was also hunting for wild rooster and pheasant usually toward the end of the day. I would drive and my husband would be next to me, ready to shoot if he saw a rooster or a pheasant. In order to hunt at night, it was necessary to trace the animal's tracks before setting out on an expedition. A person would hold a light out at front and others would follow quietly behind the one who held the rifle. I went hunting at night once when Felix killed a civet cat. It made me so sick to my stomach to see it in its last throes of life.

    But for us, however, hunting deer was a necessity if we wanted to have fresh meat. Furthermore, the deer spoiled the coffee trees. When scratched between the deer's two horns, the tree could decay and it was necessary to remedy this. It also gave Felix pleasure, as he loved hunting although he never abused it. If he killed one animal, he returned, as that was sufficient. The workers who went with him were happy, since for them there was also meat to garnish their meal consisting of rice, herbs, local vegetables, pimento, shrimp paste, and nuoc-mam, if they could get it. One must not forget while they were alone on the plantation that they had a family to feed in the plain.

    I felt that I was rewarded, since if I liked these native people they would welcome me. This contributed a lot to my adapting. There was so much to do for these Montagnards who were so poor and lived in such backwards conditions, they didn't even realize it.

    I spoke a lot with the women when it was possible for me to maintain a conversation. They were very natural with me and I with them. They spoke to me freely about their problems. I knew about their life and that became even truer gradually through the time I lived on the plantation. The principal problem of the women was to not have too many children and also how to take care of them. This was easy for me to explain to them after the birth of my daughter, Francolse. From the time of her birth, the women made a habit of saying "before Francoise or after Francoise." I wound up knowing the ages of the children from Ta-Con, the oldest and closest village to our plantation.

    I continued my learning of the language. I also had a Montagnard named "Counta" who spoke French. He once jumped on a mine at Lao Bao during the time the French were there and had his leg cut off. My mother-in-law always took care of him at the hospital, and he was always grateful to us. He walked on crutches that we had made for him at Hue. He came in each day to help me write and speak "Bur," which was very helpful to me and in this way I progressed faster. I must admit that I was very attracted to these primitive people who were so very close to us. This influenced my desire to stay at the plantation. I felt that we could help them so much in every way.

    In 1961, we returned to France. Francoise wasn't two years old yet. The plantation was once again put in the hands of Father Corentin and also of our overseer Anh Thu, who was very informed. With the help of Father, we were able to take two months vacation in France near the family. We planned on staying until Christmas, but we were called because Father had to go to the monastery at Hue to meet with Father Superior of the Benedictines. When we left, saying good-bye was painful for all of us.

    Upon our return, we had found everything in perfect condition. It is true that we had as well a Vietnamese cook who spoke French and knew how to do French cooking. We also took in his wife as a thi ba for Francoise. With the work on the plantation, harvesting and the counting, etc., I found myself pretty busy and it was necessary to have someone to look after Francoise when the two of us were occupied.

    At the beginning of 1962, I had a miscarriage, and not knowing what had caused it, I became very depressed. I returned to the plantation somewhat distressed and had trouble recovering. End of 1961. I omitted telling of one of Felix's successful hunting expeditions. The Montagnards of Ta-Con had had a young buffalo that a tiger had gotten. They came to ask Felix to help them to attract the tiger towards the spot where he was going to set the trap. It was an accessible place (and tigers like clean places) where he set up the infamous trap.

    All this was an art. It was necessary to dig a hole and cover it with bush as nothing was there, since the tiger is a mistrustful animal. Near the trap, meat was half hidden. The night went by and then very early in the morning the workers told us that they had heard a roaring, the tiger must have gotten caught. Felix, accompanied by the workers, left with his rifle and indeed, the beast was there, her paw caught in the trap. She was struggling to try to free herself as it hurt her so. That is when one must have courage and know how to shoot at the right moment. There's no question of misfiring and that would be rather unfortunate. But Felix was a fine marksman, and he killed the tiger. Then, he sent the workers to find me so that I could bring the camera and take pictures right there on the spot in the middle of the bush. Then, it was the triumphant return with a very beautiful animal. He left the trap there, however, well camouflaged. Once again, two days later, a second animal was caught. That occurred between December 19th and December 21st, 1961. Felix was very happy with this ending as two beautiful animals were captured. We were going to eat them, of course! It's not bad at all when it's well prepared.

    Now I'm going to speak a little about the events on the outside of the plantation -- actually, the war that was there. At the former French fort, there were at first seven American advisors who settled in there, without any well-defined mission except to observe what was happening in the region, which had been so calm. They put the fort back in shape after it had been abandoned for so long, so they would be able to live a little better rather than in tents. It was in February 1964 that an event occurred on Route 9. A French pharmacist from Dong Ha, a Mr. Wolff, was coming to visit Mr. Llinares who had been ill. Going down with his car, he was killed. One had taken him for an American, we thought. There also had previously been the discovery of a network of Viet Cong in the village situated near Mr. Llinares's fields (at the edge of the river Rao-Quan in a sort of deep ravine). Following this discovery, the Vietnamese authorities decided to regroup Montagnard villages that were inaccessible to the road into places where the jeeps could have access. At that time, a lot of Bru went over to the VC, several thousand, no doubt.

    However, we weren't worried despite the death of our friend Mr. Wolff. A little while later, I went down with Father Poncet to have our car repaired. Everything went well, and we came back on Friday. Felix had to go down as far as Quang-Tri and returned without being worried. But on Monday, April 20, 1964, while we were going to the market as we did each day, we stopped at my father-in-law's at noon. His wife told us that he had left for QuangTri that very morning. She was worried following the death of the pharmacist. Felix reassured her by telling her that we just came down and went back up, first him and then me. He hadn't even finished his sentence when a Vietnamese soldier we knew well, rushed in and told us screaming. In Vietnamese, "Mr. Poilane is dead. He had been killed by the VC in his car." We were stunned and very strained by this news.

    My husband brought me back to the plantation and asked Father Poncet to accompany him. He also asked for the presence of the Americans who were at the fort. They accepted and thus left under safe escort. I had said to Father Poncet, "Come to get me if my father-in-law is disfigured." We didn't know what we were going to find, alas.

    While waiting, I took the hundred steps on the trail, and the Montagnards, seeing my sorrowful demeanor, asked me what was wrong. I explained, then, without having a lot of details. I waited more than two hours before Father Poncet came back to get me. Then, he told me, "You can come. He had been killed in his car by three deadly bullets close to his heart." The Viet Cong had thrown a grenade in the motor of the car. The body had thus been brought under good escort, one never knew. The car stayed in place, one serviced the hauling later.

    It was then a Monday, the day of departure to the province of Quang-Tri's chief administrative office of Khe Sanh, and it's the first car that had been pulled, the soldiers in ambush didn't know who was going to come (ED. I believe that Madame Poilane is trying to say that the VC were waiting to ambush Quang-Tri's administrative chief but her father-inlaw rode into the ambush site and was killed instead.)

    I was going then to my father-in-law's house there in Khe Sanh accompanied by Father Poncet. I was helping my husband to groom his father. We put him in the kitchen and began. The coffin was ordered, a big one made of good, exotic wood not at all eaten by termites. We then decided to bury him close to his sister on the plantation and close to the house. The children at Hue were expectedly angry and were arriving just at the moment of burial. He was buried with Buddhist rights. We hadn't kept the body two days and already there were little lines in the wounds from the gunshots -- it was completely hot already! We got together with the Fathers at our plantation -- Father Lefas, Father Petijean, Father Neyroud and Father Vincent, not to forget Father Corentin and Father Poncet.

    Papa was 76 years old and he had to go get himself killed on the road just as he had regained his health, and his coronary thrombosis was cured. This experience we did not understand. Why would he be killed when he was known and liked by all? This ambush wasn't for him, but it is he who had been a victim unfortunately. The Fathers left for Hue, and life renewed at our home. The harvest didn't leave us any leisure, which was good.

    After this discovery of the network of Viet Cong, the Americans did not stay at the fort. They asked us if they could occupy a small piece of land used by the French for aviation. This land was found at the end of the track at the boundary of our plantation and Papa's. We accepted, of course, and an air base was built starting there. Then, this land was expanded to about 30 hectares. The situation began deteriorating. The bridges on Route 9 began to get destroyed, and we could not travel this way anymore. It was a hard blow to the planters. How to sell the coffee and supply ourselves with rice and other products necessary to life in the bush. The Americans were equipped during this time and began to construct a lot on this base, which was a strategic point for them not far from the Ho Chi Minh Trail. This was hardly reassuring to us; we were thinking that with this installation we would have an inevitable less calm life at Khe Sanh and at the plantation.

    One time Felix descended to Hue, and during this time I felt cold and I realized I had a strong ear infection. Impossible to find a Vietnamese nurse, Father Poncet was staying at the house doing everything possible to find who could take care of me. It was about 4pm when he succeeded at finding the American nurse. The latter spoke French and that made it easier. He gave me an injection of a sedative so that I would not suffer and gave me medicine for the ear infection. At the same time, Jean Marie was also sick with diarrhea. Felix returned in the evening and immediately left to ask if a helicopter could take us to Hue. The captain accepted, and at 8pm that evening we landed in Hue. I liked the helicopter as our means of transportation; it was very nice and practical.

    In Hue, I saw the doctor and found out that the eardrum of my left ear had ruptured and that I would remain deaf for many months. As for Jean Marie, we tried many X-rays and types of examinations, but we didn't find out what he had. I still felt his burning forehead against mine. It all finally ended when we found out he had tonsillitis and his health improved. He was 16-months-old, and he started to walk. That set him back a bit.

    We stayed in Hue to recover ourselves and then returned to the plantation. The weather was very bad since a typhoon had come from the Philippines. A little eight-Seat plane took us in its care. There was an American on board who took us back to the base along with our little dog Thai Dong. I had never been so afraid in my life. The plane dropped in air pockets. It was frightening and all of us were vomiting tripe. Felix and Jean Marie were stoic. The pilot shocked us when he told us he had plugged up the plane with rags; we were hysterical! But the most upsetting thing was that the plane could not cross the mountain despite several tries, and it turned back. We found ourselves again in Hue in a very sorry state. The Vietnamese soldiers seeing us like this took a jeep and brought us back to the Joan of Arc School. There, with a cup of boiling tea, my spirits lifted and I fell asleep.

    It became important, however, to think of returning. The next day, Father Neyroud accompanied by Father Suval, took us by car. The weather didn't permit us to think once again of a plane. The route for going to Quang Tri and Dong Ha didn't present any difficulties. It was on Route 9 that a bridge had collapsed. We knew that it was not possible to pass and on the other side there waited a 1,400 kilo Renault that would take us to Khe Sanh. Having arrived at the spot of a blown up bridge we were terrified. It was necessary to descend into the deep ravine (there was water) and remount on the other side. 0h, with the children and baggage it was expected that we would make a lot of trips and in what conditions! With the help of the two priests, we crossed all the same and found a truck awaiting us. It was already quite full, but we got inside and fit rather well. My knees were folded because there were bags of rice on the floor.

    We started moving, and I noticed a lady who remained on the stepladder. It was, in my opinion, a sign of gratitude for the V.C. for they were at least letting civilians pass with supplies. One had to make concessions. At KM 51, everyone got in the trailer as the danger zone had passed. It is necessary to explain that on Route 9 the places were distinguished by the number of KM, thus the plantation was at KM 51.

    These are little details, but they had their importance in the mountains where it was easy to be attacked at will.

    The return was not a burden -- a bit tiring, but we were lucky and happy to be back at the plantation, and all was quickly forgotten. Father Petitjean was waiting for us, and this was a great surprise. He had come before the typhoon and, with luck, had made it. He had gone to spend a few weeks in the cool weather, and it was always a pleasure to find our friends again in the bush. If one does not know, he can imagine how lonely it is to live alone in the wilderness. The Marines who had known the base and also our plantation were happy to see a house of blond haired children. It reminded them of their home far away in the USA. How many visitors we would have from the Marines, from soldiers to the Captains and Colonels.

    One day, we had a visit from a four star general, who I believe came directly from the U.S. He stopped at our house simply to get the news. We had, at that time, problems with the leaves falling from the trees, caused by the wind sent from Laos. None of our durian trees that were more than twenty-five years old produced any longer, having lost all their leaves and their fruit. That made so much damage on the plantation that the trees looked funny. Upon leaving, he said goodbye to us and tapping on Felix's shoulder, said to his men, "Attention, when you go to Laos, be careful of the wind when you throw defoliation products." That is a true story!

    Following this defoliation, we filed a damage claim at Quang Tri Province. We never received anything in return. We found out that the Americans had given aid, but the Vietnamese had to keep these subsidies for their side. These products had to be pretty toxic to have been able to kill trees like the durians, which are very strong. We surveyed the rest of the plantation because there were some coffee trees coming up. They were able to resist, or else we'd have replaced them, so the native population remained untouched by the consequences of this defoliation. Often, we used to see the planes go by that were going toward Laos. They were, of course, to defoliate the places that were too dense and also to always survey the territory of this cursed war.

    For us, life continued to be pretty calm, but we were at present cut off from everything. The bridges on Route 9 had tumbled. That was, for us, a big handicap because it was necessary to live on the plantation. The Marine Base expanded itself, and the planes were landing on the runway that was lengthened for the circumstances. Felix spoke English well and continued to perfect it. It was necessary for our subsequent relationship with the Marines. They occupied our land and were kind enough to assure us of their help for all that we would need. And we were going to need their assistance to sell the coffee that formerly would have been sold on the premises and bought by merchants, who would come up with their trucks. The Marines then put themselves at our disposal when it was an absolute necessity for us to have planes to carry several tons of coffee to Dong Ha, Hue, or even Danang. In return, we were able to bring up rice and as many provisions as they needed. With our planter friends, we grouped ourselves together to avoid too many requests of our neighbors. A plane just for us, that was already too kind. In order to go down to Hue, it was the same thing -- planes or helicopters took us in their charge. From that time, I didn't have to go down to Hue more than once a year. It was a little hard for us all. However, our friends were able to come up to see us and to say thanks to the kindness of the Americans and their planes. They never refused to be of service to us which was vital for us all at Khe Sanh.

    The time passed despite the impossibility of going by our own means to Hue or elsewhere. The harvest was done as in the past and the coffee sold well. It was necessary only to leave with the plane to accompany the coffee and sell it oneself on the spot. The same for the supplies -- there was an airplane for us alone and for our planter friends. It was necessary to ask, but we did not suffer too much. Everyone had to leave their coffee in the same way and bring back the provisions for everyone. Even Father Poncet acted in the same manner and brought back provisions as well for everybody. In the meantime, Father Mauvais had come to join him to help him in the apostleship. The coming of the nuns in the beginning of the year 1967 was not delayed for that, as one didn't know how long one could last and each got accustomed to it. The Vietnamese saw there a free means of bringing up the merchandise to Khe Sanh, and this side of things would please them well enough.

    Our friends continued to come to spend their vacations and to visit us. I omitted to speak of the visit of a French friend who came to spend two months with us on the plantation. This was a friend from the region of Tours where I am from. She was a nurse who brought back from each trip a very profound and lasting memory. We write each other still to this day when I'm writing these lines.

    I resume then with the nuns of St. Paul of Chartres moving in. There were four. The mother superior was a French woman whom we liked a lot, and Sister Paul Xavier had already been in Vietnam for a very long time. She lived very close to the house that the Fathers had constructed facing the village of CuBach. We had given them some land on the plantation, one hectare or more. The house was strong, that is to say concrete blocks and a roof of corrugated iron. There were two bedrooms, a little shower -very rudimentary -- fed through a big pond, and a little kitchen.

    For the nuns, it was a house on piles that was constructed with wooden walls and an iron roof. Four big rooms, one for cooking and another that would serve as the chapel and the oratory. The Fathers said the mass every week in the little oratory and on Sunday in Khe Sanh for the Catholic population. The work of the Fathers and the nuns was to take care of the Montagnards. It was necessary to explain to the latter why the nuns were dressed with their habit and the veil, and finally their kind way of life. The Montagnards were dumbfounded while listening to us.

    The nuns after having settled in already began to take care of them. There was much to do on this side. When they went into the village, I used to go up with them, as there was the language to learn. During this time, our two fathers did not remain inactive. They laid out the land of the plantation -the old abandoned pastures, a big school with a residence for the girls and boys of surrounding villages, a big kitchen and other necessary buildings, if one seriously wanted to take care of these people and to try to do a good, apostolic job.

    Before the nuns arrived, Felix had built a large hut in front of our house so that I could have class with the children, and also with the Montagnard children who wanted to attend. I taught them "Bru" and also French. We had with us for about a year a little "Bru" girl named Tiou who lived totally with us. We treated her like our two children. She was five or six years old. A boy, named Plengue, was also with us. He was around twelve. He didn't want to have his meals with us but instead, he ate with the staff in the kitchen. He helped me by watching the children while I measured the coffee. I taught him how to clean house well, how to clean the bricks, how to wipe the furniture, and I might say that he turned out to be very skillful. Several times we took him to Hue. His eyes opened wide, he who left the bushes of his village!

    To lay out my school, the Marines brought ammunition boxes to us that our workers had quickly transformed into benches and tables to furnish the school. We also found a dark green blackboard and a large desk for me made out of the same materials. To complete the furnishings there were notebooks, pencils, and chalk. Thus equipped, I was able to have class every morning. I had a correspondence course from Paris for Francoise. She would study seriously, and the other students profited from this teaching in addition to their "Bru." This gave me a chance to learn new words with the correct pronunciation. I taught them the rudiments of catechism in order to prepare them for the nuns and priests who would soon take over.

Next issue the Marines arrive,
and the Hill Battles soon commence.

*****

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