Salmagundi Vietnam. Don Pratt

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      THERE are some truly amazing contrasts in Vietnam, and one of our favorites is the contradiction of dress and tools employed by two groups of people on and around an open expanse of land outside Saigon.

      Ringed by gun towers and bunkers manned by well-armed security troops is the Tan Son Nhut golf course.

      * * *

      WEBSTER defines "ambush" as "a trap in which concealed persons lie in wait to attack by surprise."

      This definition has been bent somewhat by a few commanders in Vietnam. The word bears the stigma of disastrous defeats of the French and ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) by Viet Minh and Viet Cong respectively, and the mere sight or sound of the word can put some officers into orbit.

      In late 1965, there was an action in the Iron Triangle, in which a company of U.S. infantrymen was decimated. As they marched down a trail, the Viet Cong detonated two 750-pound bombs as mines, one at the head of the column and one at its rear. Hidden VC then poured devastating automatic weapons fire from the sides of the trail. The unit reacted aggressively and admirably, breaking the ambush, and a sister company helped trap the enemy force, and wiped it out. Nevertheless, there was no mention of "ambush" in the unit's operational report. It was labeled an "engagement."

      Unfortunately, no one told the public information officer, who released a story quoting one of the company's wounded as saying, "When the VC triggered the ambush..."

      Several days later, the brigade exec locked the heels of the PIO.

      "Goddamn it, that was an engagement, not an ambush," he screamed. "Do you know what an ambush is?"

      "Well, I know what Webster calls it, sir," the PIO replied.

      "Goddamn it, if the general says it's an engagement, it's an engagement, no matter what Webster says."

      After a 40-minute tirade, the PIO sighed with relief as the XO stormed out of the tent. A passer-by, who just happened to be the brigade's chief operations sergeant, looked sympathetically in.

      "What was that all about?" he asked.

      "Oh, the old man didn't like a release we made on some action Sunday in the Triangle."

      "You mean when Bravo Company got ambushed?"

      * * *

      LEATHERNECKS also have their anxious moments when it comes to the proper selection of a word or phrase destined to appear in a news release, especially if the subject matter deals with hostile action involving unorthodox tactics. "Ambush" is considered a delicate word, and one not to be bandied about without a good deal of thought.

      One night a Marine patrol was "surprised" by a Viet Cong force just south of the DMZ which resulted in the wounding of four members of the patrol ... A young lance corporal, assigned to the Dong Ha information office, was directed to prepare a release outlining the "engagement."

      Immediately following the dateline, the corporal wrote: "An element of this U.S. Marine force was ambushed last night by a Viet Cong force of unknown size six miles below the demilitarized zone ..."

      When he had finished, the corporal took the proposed release to the Information Supervisor, a tough old master sergeant of not inconsiderable experience, who promptly launched a tirade against the writer.

      "Damn it," screamed the Super, "Marines don't get ambushed! They are never, never caught unawares. Now take it back and rewrite it, but make sure you leave out the word 'ambush.' It just doesn't happen to Marines."

      Crestfallen, but wiser for the encounter, the corporal returned to his typewriter to redo the story. After a few minutes, the old sarge inquired into the status of the story and, assured that "ambush" had been deleted from the material, told the corporal to go ahead and put it on stencil and have it run off. The corporal did.

      It was not until the following morning, long after the finished release had been distributed to members of the press, that the sergeant picked up a copy of the story and began to read.

      He was apoplectic before he finished the lead:

      "An element of this U.S. Marine force was drygulched last night..."

      * * *

      DR. Charles Moskos, Ph.D., is a Professor of Sociology who prefers "Charlie" to "Doctor" and speaks the language of the GI with fluency and ease. He used to be one.

      In 1965 he undertook a study of Army enlisted men that carried him around the world. When we met him in Vietnam he told us that of all the units he had visited, the language used by us, to put it gently, was the least genteel.

      Browsing around the hootch, he picked up several books, asking who was reading this and who that (most of it was pretty heavy stuff).

      "Why?" three of us asked simultaneously.

      "Well, no reason, I guess. It's just that your literary tastes have absolutely no relationship to your vocabularies."

      * * *

      PETTY OFFICER Frank Rost was assigned to the staff of Task Force 77 in the Tonkin Gulf when he joined us in-country for a week of briefings and indoctrination. Like many Navymen, Frank had decided to fulfill his military obligation immediately upon graduation from college in order to pursue his chosen profession without interruption later on.

      During a bull session one night we asked him why he hadn't applied for Officers Candidate School instead of remaining in the enlisted ranks for four years.

      "Well, I thought about becoming an officer right off the bat," he told us, "and I plan to go to OCS sometime next year. But I'd rather work for a while first."