Blog | Poetry | The Three Meter Zone | JD's Bunker

Saigon

LTC (ret) Jerry Betts

Saigon,

Rice capital of the east,

City of French Oriental charm,

Renault taxis, motor bikes, villas,

Au dais and monsoon rains,

Noise, color, splendor, squalor,

Soldiers and police,

Concertina and tension.

Saigon,

Staggered by the weight of wartime economy;

Crammed with layer upon layer

Of Americans:

Portly, decaying civilians,

Creating continuity;

Newsmen,

Seeking sensation,

Or manufacturing it;

Staff officers,

Studying, reporting, discussing;

And soldiers,

Waiting to go up country,

Or returning from it.

Saigon,

Home of the Saigon commando,

Paper warrior,

Defending his country;

Earning his decorations,

So essential to his future;

Fighting heat,

Fighting battles

For BOQ assignments, vehicles, privileges,

And against moral weakness,

Winning,

And losing.

Saigon,

Where fortunes are made

In hardship bonuses,

And the black market;

Where reputations are made

In trivia;

Where women are made

In private;

Where monuments are made

To confusion;

And progress is made

Often not at all.

Saigon,

Home of pentagon east;

Home away from home.

Saigon,

City with a thousand years of personality,

Living under duress.

© Jerry Betts