ARE WE SO RIGHTEOUS?

One of my jobs in Tay Ninh East was the weekly courier run to 25th Division Headquarters in Cu Chi. On one trip, my helicopter got diverted to a Vietnamese Special Forces camp to drop off medical supplies.

The layover was an hour. I used it to walk the perimeter and study their defenses — always looking for ways to strengthen my own outpost. Special Forces camps had the best defenses for their size. I considered them works of art.

Then, near a mortar pit, I found Vietnamese officers interrogating a Viet Cong suspect. They were doing a “thorough” job. I wondered what the man had done to deserve the beating.

When the interrogators saw me watching, they dragged him out of view. I wanted to stop it. Before I could, an American in a “sterile” Tiger uniform pulled me aside. Don’t interfere with another country’s policies, he said. Then he turned and yelled at the Vietnamese to stop.

That ended it.

I never told anyone what I saw that day. I didn’t know what the man had done. No Americans were involved, so I minded my own business and kept touring the camp.

I’ve wondered since if I would have stepped in had Americans been the ones doing it. I hope so.

Writing this, I flashed back to Officer Candidate School — a Georgia swamp, an Escape and Evasion course, and my own turn as a prisoner. I was tortured until I gave up what I’d eaten for breakfast.

It started when an enemy soldier literally stepped on me while searching for my three-man team. They tied my hands, cut my bootlaces, and threw me in the back of a truck.

At the simulated Viet Cong village, they made me sign a release first — a waiver saying I had no physical impairment that would stop me from finishing the course. I knew right then I was in trouble.

I refused to answer questions. They dragged me into a courtyard and hung me by my feet, my head inches above a buried 55-gallon drum of water. Fifteen minutes hanging there. Then they lowered me in. Fifteen seconds. Thirty seconds. They stopped when I started to gag.

I still refused. They tied me to a telephone pole and crossed my legs. That was the breaking point. Within minutes I could hear my knees cracking. Both legs cramped.

I fought to keep my body from sliding down the pole. The pain was unbearable. I nearly passed out. Guards kept throwing water in my face to keep me conscious. The only thing that stopped it was a lie — a made-up skiing injury from years before.

None of them believed me. But none of them wanted to risk it being true. One guard even checked my waiver. No prior injuries listed. I told him I hadn’t mentioned it — who’s stupid enough to admit an injury to a future officer?

The bluff worked. They walked me back to the stockade with the rest of my classmates.

As for the Viet Cong soldier — my showing up might have saved his life. He was probably in that mortar pit to keep him out of sight while they worked him over. If I was lucky, my interruption scared them into thinking I’d report it, and they sent him to a POW camp instead.

But I doubt it.