BEN HUR! BEN HUR!

The Chinese New Year, or Tet, is a big deal in Viet Nam. The celebration is roughly like our New Year, Fourth of July, and the Super Bowl combined. The Vietnamese and ‘Yards take it very seriously. They save for months so they can start the new year free of debt.

It was February, 1966. The isolation of the Special Forces camp at Dak Pek did not dampen their enthusiasm for this most important holiday. For weeks, each of the five CIDG companies and the reconnaissance platoon prepared for the festivities. They bought a water buffalo from the local residents and brewed jugs of nam peh, a homemade rice wine. They constructed ceremonial buildings--pole frames over which they draped multi-colored cargo parachutes. We received almost all of our supplies by parachute at that time. Since there was no good way to return them to Nha Trang, they were overflowing our limited storage space.

Let me stop here to explain nam peh. It looks a bit like skim milk that has been diluted with an equal amount of water. But it smells and kicks just like any other home brew. It is fermented in earthenware crocks that hold about five or six gallons. The jug is nearly filled with unhusked rice. The ‘Yards collect a particular fungus growing on trees in the jungle, then dry and pulverize it. The powdered fungus is mixed with a bit of pulverized rice and added to the jug containing the rice. Banana leaves are tucked into the neck of the jug to keep the rice from floating as it ferments. Then the jug is then filled with river water. A week or two later, it is ready for drinking, or more accurately, guzzling.

And guzzling was the way it is done. The ‘Yards are very polite and hospitable people, but their version of hospitality insists that a guest drink nam peh to saturation and beyond. The nam peh is sipped through a long length of small caliber bamboo fashioned into a straw, the sharpened end of which is shoved through the banana leaves all the way to the bottom of the jug. As the wine is drunk through the bamboo straw, the level of the liquid is lowered in the neck of the jug. The jug is refilled after each participant drinks by pouring river water into the jug. The first dozen or so people who drink from a jug get the “first run,” which is being pulled up from the very bottom of the jug. When the added water finally filters to the bottom of the jug, the wine goes from merely terrible to revolting. But one must never insult the hosts by refusing to drink from the jug. And one other thing. That stuff produces a headache to end all headaches.

Getting back to Tet, we got word a few days before the celebration that Charlton Heston would be visiting Dak Pek during Tet. While the Vietnamese and ‘Yards were preparing, the team also got into the spirit. We spruced up our team house and generally policed up the area. We wanted to make a good impression on someone as important as Mr. Heston.

Late on the afternoon before the big day I realized that, according to the standards of the times, I needed a hair cut. I sent for the ‘Yard camp barber, only to find that he was on a combat patrol some distance from the camp. I was out of luck. At supper that night, I commented that I would be terribly embarrassed for Mr. Heston to see me without a fresh haircut. Art, one of my NCOs, allowed as how he could cut hair. What a relief! We dug out the hand operated hair clippers and he went to work. I was not paying much attention, being absorbed in thinking about the big day to come.

Some time later, I began to realize that no more cutting was going on. Art was frowning mightily while he studied my head. Suddenly suspicious, I called for the mirror. You guessed it. I looked as if I had tangled with a wild person wielding a not-too-sharp machete.

Art then admitted that he had in fact once cut one person’s hair, but couldn’t remember exactly when that was. I knew he was embarrassed at the botched job, so I didn’t say anything about the quality of his latest attempt. Since there was only one thing left to do, I did it. I shaved my head clean. For the first time in my life, I discovered that I have furrows in my scalp. When we saw Art next morning, he was also sporting a self-imposed shaved head.

The ‘Yards noticed the team’s unusual activity and knew something big was in the works. We had not informed them that someone important was coming because of the possibility that the local VC would get wind of it and create an unpleasant incident. On the big day, when we assembled at the chopper pad, several dozen of them gathered on the hillside overlooking the pad. At the appointed time, several slicks and gunships appeared and landed on the pad.

Each camp in our area had an old 16 millimeter movie projector. We had a half dozen or so movies that were swapped back and forth among the camps via the mail chopper. No new ones came along while I was there, so we saw the same ones many times over. But just think about the ‘Yards who were there year after year. They always gathered to see the movies, which were shown outside. With a little coaching, they could probably have recited the entire script of any of those movies without understanding a word. Ben Hur was one of those movies.

But back to the big day. As the chopper blades were slowing, out stepped Charlton Heston in the flesh. For a moment or two, nothing happened. Then, one of the ‘Yards jumped up, pointed at Mr. Heston, and shouted, “Ben Hur! Ben Hur!” In a few moments he was joined by the entire group chanting over and over, “Ben Hur! Ben Hur!”. The hair on my neck still stands at attention when I remember those wonderful people giving Mr. Heston the greatest compliment he is ever likely to receive.

Mr. Heston had lunch with one company that day. The makeshift tables were covered with parachutes, and each place had a canteen filled with nam peh. We dined on what we think was water buffalo and several other things that bore no resemblance to any food we could identify. Mr. Heston obviously had been in the Orient before, because he knew not to ask what he was being served. That is something that becomes increasingly important the further out in the boondocks you get, and Dak Pek was just about as far as you could get. After lunch, he visited around the camp for an hour or so with the Vietnamese and ‘Yards. The ‘Yards adored him and followed him around as if he were the Pied Piper.

As an added bonus, Mr. Heston asked me if there was anyone back in the World that he could call for me. I asked if he would mind calling my wife, Joyce, and tell her I was OK, and that I loved her. He made some notes and left. Several weeks later I got a letter from Joyce. She had answered the phone one day, and a lady with an English accent asked her to please hold for Mr. Heston. When he came on the line, he gave her my message, and told her that I had asked him to tell her, “I love you.” Without missing a beat, Joyce says she responded, “I love you, too.”

Copyright 1999