A Sphinx: The Memories of a Reluctant Spy in Vietnam

Chapter 1

It had been a good day. Still, Fort Hood sucked: a dusty Army base in the middle of nowhere–and in a dry county, too. But I was almost done. I had been sent here the last week of September 1967 to complete a few background investigations. Just a few more people to talk to and by tomorrow I would be out of here. That was when I got a call from my office in San Antonio. It was nothing special, I thought. Usually, they just wanted to know when I would be done. They liked their damn daily reports and I had not called in today or yesterday. But it wasn’t my sergeant; it was my lieutenant. That was different. He did not sound like the officious jerk he normally played. His voice was subdued and was tainted with a reluctance I could not understand. I immediately was cautious and concerned. What had I done wrong this time? My stomach slowly turned into a fiery knot as I listened. His words burned like a hot poker in my ear, and chilled my soul. He had just received orders for me to go to Vietnam. I didn’t know what to say. What could I say but, OK. When do I report?

The lights in the office seemed to darken. For the first time I felt really hopeless. I wanted to destroy something, break something, and then I wanted to cry. I truly never believed this would happen. What was worse, everybody in the office must have known this was coming, but no one could tell me until headquarters made it official. My life was over. I was going to Vietnam! I didn’t know what to say so I said what everybody expected me to say as I slammed the phone down: Shit! Fuck! Damn! They all had the same look in their eyes: pity for me and elation that it wasn’t them. Some fucking friends! What do you do when your life is over? My first thought was: How do I tell Lena? I was so sure this was not going to happen. In two weeks I would have been too short to send. You had to have 15 months of service time left to be sent overseas. In two weeks I would have been under the limit. The fucking Army did it to me again! I tried to be cool. Inside, terror and anger wrestled. I needed to talk to somebody–but not these idiots.

I had only been married just about four months. It was the best thing I had ever done. I wasn’t sure why I did it, but it was working out better than I ever thought it would. We were getting along so well, learning about each other, talking about our dreams, and sharing our lives. We loved each other, and now I would have to tell her I was going to Vietnam. I always called home every night and would have to call tonight or she would worry. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her this over the phone. It would be too impersonal and cruel not to be there with her so we could share our fears. Still I wanted desperately to talk to her about this. Reluctantly I decided we needed to be together when she found out. So tonight, for the first time, I would have to lie to her and pretend things were all right. Of course, lying came easy to me since I was an Intelligence Agent, a spook for the Army–and I did it well. This, however, was different and I had to prepare myself. The only way I could think to do it was to pretend to be mad at some idiot here at Fort Hood and hope my anger would hide my feelings. It almost worked when I called, but she sensed something and I just denied it and said I was tired. I never felt so bad after a phone call in my life. For the first time I had deliberately lied to my wife.

Ironically, I had joined the Army to stay out of Vietnam. My life had been a good one. I came from a large, rather well off family with parents who loved me and raised me well. I always expected to get what I wanted because I always had. As I became older, I made choices whose consequences I never fully understood. My first was to go to a seminary for high school and college. I was going to be a Catholic priest! I think I meant it at the time. No one really told me what it meant or how it would change me. I thought I was in control of me. I was in the seminary for four and a half years. I was taught by Jesuits, who I found challenging. I think I stayed so long because I enjoyed the friendships and camaraderie. Religion was there, but secondary to me. Eventually, I realized that and left. It was hard to leave my friends, but I realized I was supposed to be there to become a priest, not to be with friends. The priesthood was something special. It involved a commitment that I had just begun to understand. It was a commitment that I could not make and was not really interested in making. So I left. Leaving may have been one of the first honest things I had done. What I didn’t know was how much of their beliefs I had absorbed. It was something I was going to struggle with for the rest of my life. Besides the morality they drilled into me they gave me something that I’m sure they never intended. After going through the Army’s Counterintelligence Program I realized that there is not much difference between trying to convert someone to be a Catholic and recruiting a person to spy for you. You use the same methods and tools except that the priest believes what he teaches and is honest about his beliefs while trying to convert someone. A Counterintelligence Agent only wants to recruit his subject and will reflect whatever the subject wants to hear and believe. The trick is that the subject believes what the agent is saying because he sounds and acts as if he cares like a priest does.

After the Seminary I went to college and was exposed to ROTC. It was not a good fit. I really did not like the military mindset and I let them know it. However, ROTC was a requirement for graduation at Santa Clara University so I had to take it. They originally told me that I would have to take it for two years, as all the other students did. I was such a pain, though, that they decided after one year I would no longer have to take it. I was happy with that.

The rest of College was a blur. The seminary had not prepared me to deal with the opposite sex at all, so I drank plenty of beer and complained about women all the time. It was the sixties and the new era of free sex was loudly acclaimed. Let’s just say I missed the call on that one. I guess you could say it was because of a strong belief of right and wrong that I absorbed from the Jesuits or, more likely, just plain fear. Maybe it was just the lack of opportunity. But I didn’t dwell on it.

It wasn’t until the start of my senior year in college that I realized that I was actually going to graduate and lose my military deferment. That meant I could be drafted. All you had to do was watch TV news and you knew what that meant. I had no desire to be cannon fodder for anyone. I didn’t deny that my country could draft me, but I didn’t want to go. I knew if I got called to service I would have to go. I had somehow already made up my mind that if I could get out of it by running away to Canada, as others had done, that would not be right. It had nothing to do with the war being right or wrong. I really had not thought much about the war. I was more into beer and pizza and finding the next kegger party. Vietnam was something our politicians wanted us to fight. It was not something I was interested in. Yet, I was an American and patriotic in my own way. I was seriously thinking of joining the Peace Corps or in some way working to help people. It was kind of fuzzy since I had not really thought it through. Yet, I had a strong belief that I owed something to my country. I just did not think that being in the military was something that I would pay that debt with. To tell the truth, I would do almost anything to avoid it. I had learned to be quite good at avoiding things I didn’t want to do so far, and I was sure I could avoid the draft. I was also pretty sure that I wouldn’t pass the physical. My eyes were very bad. Yet, philosophically, I agreed that the government had the right to draft me and if the government wanted a hundred men they would get a hundred men. If I didn’t go, someone else would go in my place, probably someone poorer than me, most likely someone of color. This seemed wrong to me. That didn’t mean I had to volunteer, nor did it mean I couldn’t get a deferment. It did mean I couldn’t run away. It was those damn Jesuits in my mind reminding me of right and wrong all the time. I wasn’t sure what to do so I did what came naturally and tried to stay in school and keep my II-S deferment. That meant going to graduate school. The problem was, nobody wanted me. I wasn’t really the best student. To say I barely worked at studying while in college would probably be an exaggeration. I never even tried to study or keep up. Somehow I survived college and–miraculously–was accepted to graduate school in Mexico City (of all places) at The University of the Americas. So, after graduation in June of 1965, I went to Mexico.

Mexico was unknown to me. Well, I knew where it was and I had eaten Mexican food. I even had met a few Mexicans. But I knew nothing of Mexico. This was going to be a great adventure. I was going to hop in my VW bug and head to Mexico City on my own. And I did. It was so much more than I thought when I left. As an American, you are burdened with a belief of your righteousness and your truths. Here, right next to where I lived, were a people who believed in their righteousness and in their truths. Theirs were different from mine. The cultural differences were huge, yet tantalizingly close. I was Catholic and this was a Catholic country run by a government whose official policy was atheism. It made sense and didn’t make sense at the same time. The people I went to school with were not Americans. They came from Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. Sometimes, I felt they were brought up on a different planet, but I listened to them and I hoped they listened to me. Two things quickly became very clear. One was that America didn’t always act fairly in its relations with other countries. The other was that the people I met placed a very different value on human life. To me, every life was precious. To them, life was a coin to be spent as needed for the betterment of the society they wanted. Death was part of their lives.

While I was learning all of this, my draft board sent me a notice that my deferment had been overturned and that I was now I-A and would have to report for a medical checkup prior to induction. This did not set well, to say the least. Our government, once it gets something in its teeth, does not let go and now it wanted me. I, of course, appealed and lost. It had to be the quickest loss in history. They wanted me to report to Santa Cruz, California from Mexico City. I refused unless they paid me for the trip. Some genius must have looked at a map and found that Panama was closer than California so they sent me a notice to report to some place in Panama. I could see me trying to drive through Guatemala, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica to get to Panama. They didn’t even have roads through most of those countries. So, like a fool, I solved the problem for them and suggested Laredo, Texas. I could easily get to Laredo from Mexico City and they would have to take me from there. They finally agreed to that and I was committed to going to San Antonio, Texas for my physical.

Before I left for the States I went to the US Embassy just to find out some of my rights about induction. This was not a good move because they thought I was trying to evade the draft by hiding in Mexico. They were ready to arrest me and send me home in a pouch, I thought. I explained what was going on and they finally had a military liaison officer come in and explain what was going to happen. From the information he gave me, it was fairly apparent that I would not be drafted because of my bad eyes. I felt a whole lot better and looked forward to visiting Texas because I hadn’t been there before.

I left Mexico City for Texas on a Wednesday morning. I planned to be in Laredo by that evening. That would give me a chance to check out Laredo on Wednesday night and Thursday morning. Thursday afternoon the Army was going to drive us in a bus to San Antonio for our physical on Friday morning and we were scheduled to be back in Laredo on Friday afternoon. I knew this before I left Mexico City, so I told my roommates to expect me late Saturday or sometime Sunday at the latest. The drive to Laredo was uneventful and I found a good steakhouse Wednesday evening and a pleasant motel to stay in. Things were looking up. The next morning I paid my hotel bill and asked the landlady if I could leave my luggage with her until I got back on Friday. She agreed. I took an overnight bag with one change of underwear and went to meet the bus. Things went downhill from there. The bus held a little over 40 of us: 39+ Texas teenagers and one 22 year-old Californian. I stuck out like a sore thumb. They avoided me like I was a carrier of the plague and–worse–would sneak looks at me like I was an exhibit in a zoo.

The drive to San Antonio took forever. We arrived in San Antonio and stopped at a hotel whose best year was 30 years ago. They gave us chits for dinner and breakfast. Dinner was something dark brown covered in light brown glue. We had no choice and we could not leave the hotel to find something more edible. After dinner we went to our rooms and stared at the ceiling light since there was no TV or radio in this hotel. In the morning I had my first meeting with grits. It was not a good meeting and I had no idea what they were and why they came with breakfast. The Texas boys gobbled theirs down, though. I left mine behind as a memento of my visit.

We were then driven in an old Army bus to the Induction Center for our physical. Thus began the Army’s dehumanizing treatment of draftees. They poked. I coughed. They drew blood. I bent over. They poked something in my ears. They checked my nose, mouth, and teeth. Then they asked me to remove my glasses and read a sign. I, of course, couldn’t see the wall. Bad eyes are bad eyes. At the end of all these tests we all got dressed and waited in a large room. After a nervously long wait, a military guy came in and started to read names. After each name he said Passed or Failed. People who passed had, at the most, six weeks until induction. I waited and waited. Finally, my name was called when they said, Burdick–retest. What the hell did that mean? Out of all those kids I was the only one to be retested. I found the military guy and asked, What does that mean? He said that I failed the eye test so they needed to retest my eyes at Fort Sam Houston and that could not happen until Monday since the Fort’s Eye Clinic was closed on the weekend. That meant three more nights in the hotel from hell.

When we got back to the hotel the others stayed on the bus. I got off, was given a handful of chits again, and watched the bus leave. I went to my room and began the wait. At least during the weekend I could walk around town a little. However, we were in a rather seedy part of town and walking around was a risk. I found an old bookstore and bought a sci-fi book to read over the weekend.

Monday seemed to take a month to arrive, but it eventually did. This time a sergeant came and picked me up in a jeep and drove me to Fort Sam Houston. The Induction Center had not been truly military–as I had discovered–but this place definitely was. I really felt uncomfortable and wanted out of there as soon as possible. That is when I learned about Hurry up and wait. Finally, a guy about my age in a white coat came and got me. He told me how guys were always trying to get out of the Army by saying they couldn’t see. I assured him my eyes were truly bad. All he had to do was look at the thickness of my lenses. He was not impressed. I’ll never forget the test he gave me.

I was asked to take off my glasses, which I did. He then beamed a three-foot-tall letter on the wall 20 feet away. He asked me to get up and walk toward it and tell him when I could make out the letter. I wondered: What kind of dumb test was this? But I stood up, squinted at the wall, took one step forward, took another step forward, took a third step forward and knocked over the projector which–unbeknownst to me–was directly in front of me. I was so intent on staring at the wall that I didn’t see it and, without my glasses, wouldn’t have seen it anyway. It shattered on the floor. I was surprised because I was so focused on the wall. The guy in the white coat was really pissed. He yelled, You dumb asshole! You passed! He made a notation on my record, signed it and then stomped out of the room and my world died again. Before he left I tried to explain to him that it was just an accident but he would have none of it.

After he left, I looked around for someone who could help me. I saw this guy with a lot of stripes on his arm and went and talked to him. He never tested me. He just got pissed at me because I broke his projector and then signed that I had passed. Who can I see to give me a real eye test?

The old soldier just shook his head and asked, You said he signed your papers. Is that right? I nodded. OK, here’s the deal. You can appeal your test. The officer over there (he pointed to a man sitting at a desk in the corner of the room) can take your complaint, but I don’t think it will do you any good. Appeals take six to eight months to decide. You will be drafted in six to eight weeks and will have to report for induction into the Army. Go ahead and make the appeal if you want, but in a couple of months you will be in the Army as a draftee, no matter what happens. Sorry, son! Once the clerk signs the medical record with your approved status you are going into the Army. Good luck! He patted me on the shoulder and walked away.

I knew he was probably right and that I was screwed. I did go over to the officer–a real eye doctor–but he said the same thing. I slowly realized–sadly–that there was no appeal that I could find for the decree of this clerk. Bureaucracies, I learned at that moment, were unstoppable. I had been caught in its trap and there was no way out–or I didn’t know of one at that moment. So I was tossed into the Army by some unknown optometrist’s assistant who passed me only because I broke his projector. I was royally screwed. I knew now how a person who had been shanghaied must have felt. A cold dark anger filled my soul. From that moment on, I knew I would get even somehow. I knew I had about six weeks until I was drafted. But first I had to figure out what I was going to do now. I was taken back to my hotel and my thoughts. They sent me back to Laredo the next morning.

On the way back to Laredo I was a jumble of thoughts. It took half the trip for me to really understand what had happened to me. I hated the fucking Army. I had been screwed by a pea-brained idiot with the IQ of a ball of lint and there was nothing I could do about it. The Army had me and they knew it. It was hopeless. Yet, I would not give in to the hopelessness. There must be a way around these idiots. So I sat and thought out my options and decided that maybe I should join up in the Navy, Air Force, or Coast Guard. At least I wouldn’t be in the Army! After all, I had a college degree and was in graduate school. There must be something I could do that would not render me cannon fodder. So I went to the motel again and explained to the landlady what had happened. My stuff was still in my old room. She just shook her head and gave me back my old key. I went to my room and took a long hot shower, changed my four-day-old clothes and went back to that good steakhouse. This time I had more than a few beers but I didn’t enjoy them as much as I did the first time. The next morning I planned to start my search for a new life.

About mid-morning I went to the Courthouse because that was where all the recruiters were. I first went to the Navy and asked about joining. The recruiter asked me a number of questions. He wanted to know what kind of job I wanted. Now that was something that I hadn’t thought about. So I had to listen to all his options. He thought I would make a great officer but was vague about the job I would have. Finally, I told him about the tests I had taken for induction, so he made a quick call to San Antonio and began writing down various numbers and short quotes. He hung up and began looking through his manuals. This took a fair amount of time and it was near lunchtime when he finally looked up and said, Look, why don’t you go get some lunch and come back between 3:00 and 4:00 this afternoon. By that time I will have found something for you. He had the look that a hunter must have when he has the fox in the trap: I was about to be skinned. With that, we shook hands and I went to lunch and then back to my room to watch a little TV before I became a sailor. I went back at 3:00 but had to wait because he was talking to some other poor soul. A little after 3:30 he was done and called me to his desk. When I sat down I noticed he looked really uncomfortable. That did not bode well. I felt my stomach tightening.

Well, Mr. Burdick, I researched everything we have and with your eyes you do not qualify to join the Navy as an officer. Your eyes are just too bad! Somehow, that figured! So I asked about becoming an enlisted person. Look, I went through the entire Navy ‘regs’ but there was nothing that you could qualify for. With that he slowly closed my file and my heart sank. I’m sorry, but with your eyes you can’t join the Navy under any circumstance as your vision does not meet our minimum standards. We shook hands and I dragged myself out of his office. This was not a good sign. I left and went to get a beer. I needed to think this through again. While I was drinking my third beer I looked in the phone book and found there was no Coast Guard recruiter in the town. I had already decided that the Marines were not an option, which was probably one of my better decisions.

So, the next morning I went looking for the Air Force recruiter. This time I said I wanted to enlist and that I was aware that my eyes might be a problem. I told him about the testing by the Army. He made some disparaging comment about the Army that I agreed with and made the same call that the Navy recruiter had and got my eye exam numbers. He also began the same search for a job in the Air Force. He would name different jobs and then look up the requirements if I was interested. We went through five or six of these, all of which I could not qualify for because my eyes were too bad. He, too, finally gave up. I was dead! It was too late to go anywhere else so I went back to the motel and stared at the TV. The news from Vietnam was on. I watched them load body bags onto a helicopter. This was not good for me to see so I changed the channel. I was getting very depressed. Despite my feelings about the Army, tomorrow I would have to try to join the Army. If they could draft me, they could enlist me, and maybe I could get a job that would keep me away from Vietnam. I felt sick to my stomach. I was losing my battle to stay out of the Army.

First thing in the morning, I went to see the Army recruiter but had to wait for two other enlistees to finish. I explained my situation and that I had decided to enlist. I was sure the Army could find a place for me. The recruiter almost licked his chops. He immediately brought up officer training and we discussed several possible jobs. He then made that same call the other recruiters had, wrote down those same ominous numbers and began to look in his books. He kept looking and looking and finally said I could not enlist as an officer’s candidate because my eyes were too bad. He was sure, though, that there was something I could enlist in as a regular soldier. He looked again. I was getting a little upset. This was ridiculous. I could be drafted into the Army but I couldn’t join it. What an organization! After a longer while he admitted that he could not find an MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) I could enlist in with my eyes as bad as they were. By then I was really upset. I jumped up from my chair, almost knocking over his desk, and yelled my frustration about the crap that was happening to me. Surprisingly, the recruiter agreed with my outrage and even sympathized with me. He had an idea. In the entire world I found a recruiter with a brain! He had met some Military Intelligence Officers recently and they said they were looking for recruits. He had a card from one of them and said he would give them a call that afternoon. He did not think that my eyes would be a problem with them. He asked me to return the next morning. Intelligence! I was still absorbing that when I left. What the hell was that? I was curious. At least this option was interesting. I went back to the motel. I was still wearing the same clothes that I arrived in over a week ago. Things were getting ripe. I showered again.

On Friday morning I went back to see the Army recruiter. I had now been in Texas almost 10 days. I was supposed to be back in Mexico City last Sunday. I was going to be drafted now in five weeks. Time was ticking away. The recruiter was waiting for me. He had talked to the guy on the card and they were interested. They had no problem with my poor vision. Now I wanted to know what they were talking about. The recruiter admitted he didn’t know much about what these guys did. I would have to go back to San Antonio for an interview that might take two to three days. This did not sound right, so I asked for some details. He said I would have to join for three years. If selected, I would be given a car, would wear civilian clothes, be paid to get an apartment, and get money for clothes and food. I was beginning to wonder if they would also throw in the Brooklyn Bridge. This offer was too good to believe. But I had to be accepted first, and that meant an interview Monday morning. So, by Friday afternoon I was on the bus again, heading for San Antonio and the same hotel. Things couldn’t be better. At least if I got the job in Intelligence, it sounded like I would not really be in the Army, but working like a civilian. I liked that thought!

Monday morning a businessman–well he looked like one, suit and tie and all–showed up and took me in his car to an office building. We went to a large office and I was told to wait in the front area. In about a half hour another man showed up with a load of forms that he asked me to fill out. It was lunchtime before I finished and they told me to go down to the corner restaurant and get lunch. This was weird! Was this a test? So I went down and got a sandwich while constantly looking around to see if someone was watching. I never saw anyone. I returned and waited again for what seemed forever until another man showed up. He and I went into a small room and he went over every item on the forms I had filled out. He made notes on a little yellow pad every now and then. He talked of many things. He asked me about my activities in college. What was I doing in Mexico? It took forever. I kept my views on the Army to myself. There was no need for him to know that the Army had become my enemy. He probably sensed my anger at it, though. Towards late afternoon, he said I would have to come back tomorrow. He also asked me if I minded being given a polygraph test. This was cool! I had never seen a lie detector, let alone been on one. I was curious and really wanted to do it. So back to the hotel I went.

Tuesday morning, the same man who had gone over my forms picked me up. We went back to the office and into that same room. This time there was equipment in it that I took to be the lie detector. He sat me down and explained what was going to happen. First, he hooked up pads to my fingers and strapped a wire around my chest. I wondered if I was going to undergo shock therapy instead of being questioned with a lie detector. He had a long list of questions he was going to ask and went over each one of them before the test began. He also spent a considerable amount of time explaining the strengths and weaknesses of lie detectors. It was interesting. He then hooked me up and began asking the questions. He did this twice. I then had to go out front and wait again. About mid-morning he had me come back into the room and he began explaining the jobs available in Counterintelligence. I was fascinated. I had passed the interviews and tests. They were now going to do a background investigation on me and, if that turned out OK, I would be in the Intelligence Community of the Army, either as a Clandestine Agent–what I later learned was called a super spook–or as a Military Intelligence Counterintelligence Agent. Both sounded good to me. I asked how long that would take and he really didn’t know. I had to admit my problem with the draft and I was assured I could join but not until the first quarter of 1966. I didn’t understand because I would be drafted before then. The balloon popped. He laughed when he saw my face drop and told me that I could fill out papers and join tomorrow. Once I signed up I could no longer be drafted. I would not have to actually report for Basic Training until about February. (It was now early November.) I asked again to be sure that I would not be subject to the draft. He smiled and again told me I would not be drafted. So I was taken back to the hotel and then, on Wednesday, back to Laredo for what I hoped was the last time.

The lady who owned the motel thought the whole thing was hilarious. She had never seen someone have so much trouble getting into the military. During the whole two-week-plus journey she only charged me for 4 nights. I guess in her heart she felt sorry for me. I had one more night to go. Thursday morning I was waiting for the recruiter at his office. We went directly to his desk and began to negotiate my next three years. I made him write down about the clothes, apartment, and car. I really didn’t believe they would do it and if they didn’t live up to the contract I thought I could get out of the Army. I might win yet! I signed the paper. I was going into the Army. I was to report to the Induction Center in San Antonio on February 26, 1966. I felt sick!

Now I had to get back to Mexico City. But before I left the States, I called home and let my mom know what I had done. I would be home sometime in early February before I had to go to Basic Training. She didn’t say much, but I could tell from her voice that she was worried. I then hopped in my car and headed for Mexico. I wondered what my roommates would think. It was almost three weeks that I had been gone. I was two and a half weeks late. I picked up a tourist visa for my car and took off.

I arrived in Mexico City late in the afternoon and pulled into my apartment’s parking lot. My roommate couldn’t believe his eyes. He thought I was dead by the side of the road somewhere. He had reported me missing to the American Embassy. Evidently, everyone was out looking for me. We opened a beer and I told him my story. He was speechless and couldn’t figure out what to say to me. So we drank our beer quietly. I felt strange. Things had happened so fast and I had to talk to Sylvia. I had forgotten about Sylvia. Nothing is easy.

* * * * * * * * * *

I hadn’t intended to get involved with anyone while in Mexico, but I found the Mexican women irresistible. Never had I seen so many pretty women. When I first got to Mexico City I would go down to the Reforma near the Monument to Independence and sit and watch all the secretaries from the office buildings go to lunch. There were thousands of beautiful women walking hurriedly in every direction. It was an incredibly beautiful sight. My roommate, Tom, had met one–Maria–and invited me to go with him to meet her family. My Spanish was better than his since he had none. That’s where I met Sylvia. She was not like others I had seen. She had eyes that tugged at your heart and a smile that warmed the soul. As with most things in Mexico, things were not really what they seemed. My friend from Chicago wanted to sleep with Maria in the worst way. If going to visit the family was part of the process, he was willing to do it. So we went to their house.

I guess no one told him about Maria’s brothers. They did not like Americans in general and American students in particular. Luckily for us, no one in the family spoke English except Maria and Sylvia, although Sylvia’s was not very extensive. The brothers did not know how much Spanish I understood. However, it didn’t take a translator to ascertain their dislike. There were pleasantries and I translated most of what I understood to Tom. While I was doing that, though, I was adding to my suspicions about the brothers from some of what they were saying. I guess if you were a moth on the ceiling it would have been comical. It was not for us. Luckily, this was going to be a short visit. All that we had been told was that we were to meet the family, have a beer and a snack, and then leave. I was ready to go back to our place when I saw Maria’s brothers, but since I had not been able to talk even a little with Sylvia, I decided to stay a little longer. Tom was getting nervous, both from what I was telling him and from what his imagination must have been telling him. He was now very aware of the brothers. Maria, as was the custom, never stayed in the room for long. She would go out to the kitchen and bring back some crackers and sodas. The beers never arrived.

Then we were asked if we would like a shrimp cocktail. I talked to Tom and he thought it would be a good idea. I had eaten many shrimp cocktails–lettuce, catsup, a little horseradish, and some shrimp. I must have forgotten where I was. Mexican shrimp cocktails aren’t like that. As a point of honor, the eldest brother said he would make them. Maria was impressed that her brother would be amiable to the American students. The hair on the back of my neck came to attention. In a few minutes he returned with an ornate tray with two crystal bowls filled with what looked like shrimp in dishwater with green, orange and white things swimming with the shrimp. We were the only ones served. We smiled and I thanked him as he maliciously grinned at us. Back in college at Santa Clara University I had realized that if I focused a little bit I could tell what someone was feeling when I met them. It helped me get out of numerous situations in College. When I met Sylvia’s brother I was not getting a warm feeling. He did not like us and I understood immediately what was happening. Machismo runs deep in the Mexican character and we had stumbled into his trap. If we refused his offering, we would insult him and have to leave. If we tried to eat and could not, the same insult was there. If we insulted him, Maria could never see Tom again. That probably meant that I would never again see Sylvia. As I was complimenting the dish to the brothers, I told Tom what was going on. I took my first bite. Luckily, I was used to spicy food. The green parts turned out to be pickled Jalapeño chilies, the orange parts were pickled sliced carrots, and the white parts were pickled onion slices. The juice was lime and the oil was from a can of pickled jalapeños. We were in trouble. Tom was suffering. He was not used to spicy food–he thought catsup was spicy. Still, he grinned and bore with it.

We struggled through the bowl, all the time complimenting the brothers about the dish while our lips were burning and God-knows-what was happening to our intestines. I would smile at Tom and ask him if he was dying. He would smile back and ask me: How do I get out of this? We both would then take another bite. This continued as we ate the cocktail. I was not going to let the brothers win, so I kept saying how much we liked it, even though it was different from what we had in the States. Of course, they didn’t bring us any more drinks. We were dying. Sweat was running down our backs and beginning to drip off our foreheads. After we finished the bowl, the brothers said they would make us more since we liked it so much. Again, if we turned them down we would insult them since, obviously, we didn’t like it and were lying–which was true. The rules of machismo being what they are, I of course accepted. I then told Tom, who understood but was losing interest in Maria as the pain increased. While the brothers were out of the room we plotted our exit. After a couple of bites, Tom would look at his watch and tell me that we had to get back so that he could finish a paper. It was an old routine but all we could come up with as more sweat rolled down our backs.

They returned with new bowls that had less shrimp and more of the peppers and other things. We thanked them and I waited for Tom to set the routine in motion. I waited and waited. I looked at Tom but he had gotten the machismo fever. He looked directly at the brothers as he deliberately put bite after bite into his mouth. I finally said, Are you nuts! That broke the whole cycle and I translated my remark for them, as I could not believe how much Tom liked their shrimp cocktail. Tom then started the routine about the paper that was due. We made our apologies and thanked them for their hospitality. Tom thanked Maria for inviting him and asked her out to a movie and to bring Sylvia along. She accepted and told her brothers, who reluctantly approved. We slowly got into my car, waved goodbye, and drove carefully to the corner. I turned the car right and burned rubber (which is hard to do in a VW bug), looking for a cantina to get a cold beer. We quickly found one, and after four beers each were able to talk and laugh because we won. Later, Maria told Tom that her brothers were impressed with our manners and respect. They allowed Maria to continue seeing Tom. As far as I know, Tom never succeeded in sleeping with Maria–but as in all things it’s the quest, not the capture, you remember. That was the first time Sylvia and I met.

Over time, Sylvia and I became good friends. I even met her mother. I kind of got myself into a position I shouldn’t have, and didn’t know how to get out of. First, you have to appreciate that I had previously spent five years in a seminary to become a priest. I knew nothing about how women think or what they feel is important. I just wanted to be with people I liked and who thought I had something to offer. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and absolutely no idea how my attitude was read by the women I met. I really wanted to help people. I just knew that I didn’t want to do that as a priest. Without real goals but with a very strong curiosity, I really was the wrong type of person to become involved with a Sylvia.

It turned out that Sylvia’s family was extended. Her father had married another woman in the church and had a family with her. This was his real marriage. He had also married Sylvia’s mother in a state marriage recorded in the barrio (district) she lived in. Sylvia thought he had also married some other women in other barrios. In Mexico, the church had central records so there could only be one church marriage, while the state had no central recording system then. Some men used that loophole and got married in various barrios of the town. Mexico City is so huge that they could get away with it. Since it was required for all Mexicans to be married by the state before the church, it was possible for the men to get married in the state and then not have a church wedding. Sylvia never blamed him but was sad and would cry because she would never know her half-sisters and half-brothers. I had read about this in college and now I was in the middle of it. It was really very interesting and touched my Jesuit-implanted desire to help those in need. This desire to help was a very dangerous thing for the Mexican women that I knew because they read this attitude of mine as a serious interest in them for marriage–but I didn’t know that. Everything I learned about Sylvia just strengthened my desire to help her.

Eventually, I was invited to her house. Until then, we had always met at some public place and gone to dinner or a movie–always with another couple. Although she gave me directions, I had a hard time understanding them. Her mother lived in one of the poorer barrios in Mexico City. It was not a place I would normally drive to or even stop in, but I went anyway. I was going to take her to the Torre Latino Americano for drinks at the bar at the top of the building, which at that time was the tallest building in Mexico City. So I had a coat and tie on. I stepped out of my car into a dark, foreboding street, trying to avoid garbage and worse. I went to where she said was a walkway and found a dark alley with a single light bulb way at the end of it. People were huddled in various doorways down the alley and some were sitting in the filth–and all were staring at me. This looked somewhat risky to me but I went into the dark alley and headed for the light anyway. This penchant for ignoring risks was going to haunt me later in life, but now it seemed perfectly correct to charge down a darkened alley in Mexico City’s worst slum.

There was supposed to be a courtyard at the end. All I was hoping was that I would somehow get out of this place alive, so I went on. I finally came to the open space Sylvia had called a courtyard but which was no more than a bare dirt open space with a dripping faucet at one end where people presumably were getting their water. To my left were two doors that you could tell were common bathrooms for how many of the people who lived here I didn’t know. Sylvia’s place was supposed to be to the right so I turned and looked. There was a doorway but I didn’t see a door. It looked closed but it was too dark to be sure–the tiny lightbulb did not shed much brilliance here. I went to the doorway and stopped. It was a blanket or rug. There was no door. How do you knock on a blanket? I knocked on the wall next to the blanket. I was determined to go through with this. Besides, if I left I would have to go through that dark gauntlet of foreboding eyes alone. I knocked again.

Sylvia pulled open the blanket, stepped out and invited me in to meet her mother. I thought she was a bit loud about this but by this time every noise I heard was amplified by my fear. I later found out that her neighbors all thought she was exaggerating about having a rich American as a boyfriend and had been giving her quite a bad time about it. She wanted all to know that I had come to visit her mother. I didn’t realize the importance of this to her at the time–or to her mother–or the implied commitment I was making. Life is simpler being ignorant, I guess.

We entered into what could barely be called a hallway. On the left was a small table with two freestanding gas burners on it and a bucket next to the burners. I had no idea what was in the bucket and did not look. A small cupboard was on the wall next to a refrigerator. On the right was a doorway that Sylvia pulled me into. In the room were an overstuffed chair, a large bed and–surprisingly–a 21" color TV playing brightly. Sylvia’s mother was sitting on the bed and motioned for me to sit in the chair. I declined and asked her to sit in the chair. It was her house. (Well, at least her room.) Sylvia tried to get me to sit in the chair but for some reason I still refused. It didn’t seem right. Then Sylvia disappeared and returned with a chair. Where it came from, I did not know. I suspect she borrowed it from a neighbor. I sat on the chair. Her mother then went and sat in the overstuffed chair and Sylvia sat on the bed. She was beaming. Somehow, I was doing the right things without realizing it. I was given a beer, as was her mother. Sylvia also brought crackers and some kind of white Mexican cheese. We talked. My Spanish was not all that good and I understood more than I could speak.

Sylvia’s mother, it turned out, claimed Aztec roots and was very proud of that. She even knew some Nahuatl words and spoke them. I was taking a graduate course that taught us some of the Aztec language so I said something back in Nahuatl. You would have thought I had hit her with a club. Her eyes widened to huge disks and then she laughed in joy. I was afraid I had said something really stupid. I thought all I had said was that I knew some Nahuatl. She was shocked that a gringo would know anything about her culture. We were friends from that moment on. Sylvia was not in the room when this happened and came running in as her mother babbled a long statement that I didn’t catch. I asked Sylvia if I had said something incorrectly. All she did was say, No, but she was beaming and blushing at the same time. After a little more time her mother dismissed us to let us go to the Torre Latino Americano and we went out for the night.

As we walked down that darkened alley that had frightened me before, there seemed to be a lot more people and Sylvia was talking mostly in English, which was not normal or easy for her. She looked very happy and proud. I was feeling very guilty. Until this moment this had been a game for me. Chasing women was good sport. But I sensed I had entered somewhere I didn’t belong, a place where life was not a game, and a place where life was real. To the people I had just left, I was the dream, and, though they didn’t know it, a dream that would never be fulfilled.

It only got worse after that. I wanted to take Sylvia out without her friends but somehow could never get that across to her. So I asked one of the graduate students from Texas what I was supposed to do or say that would tell her I wanted to be alone with her. I was tired of her friends. He told me that she would have to be my girl friend officially before that happened. I understood girl friend. It just meant we were only seeing each other and that, somehow, that would let her go out with me alone. He even told me the phrase to use. Never seek advice from a Texan–as I learned the hard way.

The next time I was out with Sylvia I used the phrase and was astonished with what happened next. She started crying, and then gave me the biggest hug I had ever gotten from her, and then she smiled, laughed, and cried at the same time. I tried not to look shocked but I knew that the phrase I used meant something more than I thought. That damned Texan had gotten me into trouble. I found out the next day that the word I used meant girl friend in Texas but engaged in Mexico. What had I done to poor Sylvia!

Life after that was different. I should have stopped and explained my mistake but I didn’t. Sylvia doted on me. Her eyes glowed with pride. She wanted to show me off to all her friends and we went to party after party where I was always introduced as being with Sylvia and always was the only American there. Sylvia waited on me at every one of these events. If my drink were empty she would get another one to me before I could find out where the drinks were. If I said we should get something to eat, she would disappear and return with a huge plate of food for me. I could do no wrong in her eyes and she would do anything for me. But I never did get to take her out by myself. Her friends were no longer going with us. Now an aunt of hers was assigned to go with us to every event. If we went to a movie, I had to pay for her, too. A "Duena" was what she was called. So all my effort to be alone with her had done was formalize a chaperone that I could not get rid of. I was worse off than before. This was where my life was when I got my draft notice and went to Texas.

Now I had to tell this woman–who thought I was her way to the golden spoon–that I was going off to war. Well, at least off to the Army. My guilt was doubled by my seminarian training. Wanting to help people was built into me. Sylvia needed to be helped. She was a fine young woman who I believed loved me completely. She could either come with me or remain to live in that one-room hovel that was her home. I did not want to end her dreams now. I kept up the relationship. When I told her that I was going into the Army those big brown eyes filled with tears that flowed down her dark cheeks. She hugged me and cried. She knew about Vietnam and she was afraid I would be hurt or die in war. So was I. But she stopped because she didn’t want her pain to make my time with her a sad time. Still I could see her soul through her big brown eyes and she was terribly sad.

One day she asked me to take her to the Shrine at Guadalupe. She knew that I had been there several times on my own and I was curious why she wanted to go now. So we went. It turned out that she had purchased a small gold medal with a picture of the Virgen de Guadalupe on one side and etched on the other side were the words Sylvia Y John. She wanted it blessed at the Guadalupe Shrine. So she found a priest and he blessed the medal and then me. Sylvia put the medal around my neck and said, "Now you are safe. The Virgen will watch over you." It was a special moment. I wore that medal every day until I was dating Lena. When she noticed it and the inscription, she yanked the chain and medal off my neck and threw it into a field next to her house. I suppose I should have put it away before I started dating Lena, but it was a link to a time that would always be special to me and was a lesson that I should control what I get into and not fall into things, like I did with Sylvia.

I left Sylvia in early February 1966 to go off into the Army. I was first sent to Fort Polk, Louisiana for my Basic Training. Fort Polk was a life-changing experience and not a good one. Every soldier in my training company was from the South. I was the only one from the West and–worse, according to my drill instructor from California, for the first few