The Jeunesse Doree persists.
Apr 4, 2006
Tammy Turner Peaden was a medic in Vietnam for three years -- part
of the time in the Aushau Valley during the Tet Offensive.
Tammy talks about Vietnam. Reads some poems about the
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COOL COOL COOL!!!! Loved this! Post more...loved each one! The Battle was Ultra-Cool! Blue Tat\'s blog is DA BOMB!!!
I\'ve listened to this several times now, keep coming back to it. Each listen gives me something I didn\'t catch before. A really good off the cuff read; works very well. I liked the Inferno & the Battle a lot too, and all the rest. Nice site.
This one is my faveorite one. it\'s really good.
A vet myself (Korea), I thought this was very true-to-life and gut-wrenching. Thanks for posting this. The other poetry readings were also really good, I enjoyed them.
Please contact Dr. Richard Vasquez at NCNAMEDS@aol.com
I would like to talk with you in regards to your compelling broadcast. Thank you for your time.
I really enjoyed all the podcasts here. Really inovative and different. The first one and the one about the battle are great. Thanks.
This is good.
Very, very good.
I listened to this spellbound...it\'s a really accurate rendering made human by the resignation that I heard throughout in the speaker\'s delivery. A grand recital. More, please.
I just listened to this, and I am quite certain that this is Lt. T.M. Peaden who served as a flight nurse with the Air Ambulance Corp, Div. 104 during the years 1966-68. I desperately would like to get in touch with her, and I followed the link to the BLUE TATTOO blog and found that this is indeed her photo displayed there. I have sent several E-Mails to the address provided on this blog, explaning who I am, but have recieved no response. I am a member of a group of Doctors and Nurses who served as field medics during this time frame, and we are located only about 40-60 miles from Ms. Peaden if my estimations are correct. I would greatly appreciate any help in forwarding our information to Ms. Peaden, along with the request that she contact me if she is able to do so. Thank you!
PO Box 1127
Rocky Mount, NC
Or E-Mail Darlene @ SSJ4MajinVegeto@Aol.com
UNFUCKINGREAL..It\'s really Lt. P! I can\'t believe this. Contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org...if you went home, I\'m right at your back door...PLEASE WRITE!!! It\'s Lil Bobby, Tammy! DAMN!!!
Very, very good. It all is...everything is entertaining and well done.
Somebody E-Mailed me and said I could find Lt. P. here...DAMN. I can\'t believe what I am hearing! Tammy, if you are reading these, it\'s Pam, from Ta Bat. Remember the 2 weeks at Red Beach?? I think about those days often; and I think of you a lot...don\'t you know you were one of the most stand-up people I\'ve ever met? I heard you were killed around July of \' 68...DAMNED GLAD TO SEE IT\'S NOT SO!!!! Please contact me at email@example.com. PLEASE! There\'s so much to say. This is just so strange, like a movie. I\'m going to take that link...is there a chat room there?
yes, agreed. This is really above-the-bar stuff. So is everything posted here in this little out of the way spot. Glad I listened to a friend\'s advice to check it out...
293rd Aviation Helicopter
(293 Air Rangers)
\"She should be on TV, have a book...\" She DOES have a book, just published this winter. Go to http://tattoosinblue.blogspot.com/ and click on \"Buy Blue\'s Book.\" Great stuff.
Army Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol
Long live those that returned; long live the memory of those that did not.
With the help of those like Ms. Blue.
The Fighting 75th salutes you.
Brought me to tears. I was there; my night now full of reflection. What a haunting voice; such a sorrowful remembering.
15th MED Recon never forgets
Four years in the Nam, medic
1965-1966 561st Ambulance Co. siagon
1968-1968 1/26 Inf div 1st Inf Div. D Co and B co
1968-1969 498 Air Ambulance Co( 498 Dust Off)
General Harold Moore said \"I will never forgive my self for living while so many men died\".
I feel that way...and that is the way you feel, too, isn\'t it?
It\'s hard...so hard.
498 Dust Off Remembers
A link to where Tammy hangs out.
A link to where Tammy hangs out (tho most have found it).
and she has a blog
This is great...thanks; but I would have typed in the juno thing anyway if you hadn\\\'t posted the link. Who is she? Already been to the blog...spectacular. She should be on TV, have a book, post a column.
Riviting is a good word, al;ready used, I see.
Thanks for this.
This was quite the attention holder. I have never been to war, but I feel for this woman. Glad I listened.
Cry a little while for me, Rose Marie...
Get off that goddamned \'nam soapbox, would you?
Who cares anymore?
Just letting you know that I actually know this lady; in fact, knew her well for about 8 months from the fall of \\\\\\\'67 through the summer of \\\\\\\'68. As a member of the 1st Battalion, 506th infantry regiment (Air Assault to you, you ignorant asswipe), I had the extreme pleasure to throw back many a shot of hootch alongside of her in a makeshift USO tent in the shadow of Dong Ap Bai...Hamburger Hill to you, who have only seen the movie. She was a fine woman all those years ago, strong and fearless and absolutely hell-bent on doing whatever she could to see that some of us got to make a jump-ride stateside. She remains one of the bravest women I\\\\\\\'ve ever known, risked her own life too many times to count in an effort to save another. And I understand she\\\\\\\'s still at it.
So you need to shut your pie-hole, you stupid SOB, because you don\\\\\\\'t know a damned thing you are talking about.
Tammy Maria...I can\\\\\\\'t BELIEVE I have just listened to your voice again after 38 years! Jesus, you sound almost the same...voice a little huskier, is all. Still favoring that right knee, or has time bought you some titanium to ease it out? I would LOve, and I mean LOVE...and so would Gerogie-boy and Stu (YES, still in touch) to see you again; please contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org or write to me at Tony Ignato, Apt 41223, Building 266A, South End Ave., Battery Park City, Queens, NY 11004.
E-mail me for phone #.
I still can\\\\\\\'t BELIEVE IT...I love you, girl! PLEASE GET IN TOUCH!!!!
This lady has it right. Hard to listen to, needed to be said. She\\\'s right about the fog.
Wonderful and compelling. A true voice of the ones who saw.
Somebody posted this link on at least two vietnam blogs I frequent; so glad I followed the link here. This is excellent; just the way it was and still is for so many of us. I don\'t know the lady either, but I can\'t help but feel that I know her, must have seen her there; those women (and they were so few) who jumped the fault lines and flew right in with the bird boys were truly fearless buckers of THE MAN in every way and each face I saw bending over me in that hell hole is etched in my miond like stone. I think I may have yours there, Ms Blue, whoever you are. Thank you to whoever put this out here for us. God bless.
Charlie Company salutes you.
Having been there, I found this very difficult to listen to; difficult and painful. Whoever she is, pin a medal on her, and all the other women who were there and subsequently overlooked by an uncaring government.
More about Tammy.
Her interview with Orson Welles below.
Orson: “No one in film has ever had such talent, such energy, such innate depth. But he had made a film that ensured his career’s end, and he had done it all so that the films grim portrait of solitude would be fulfilled.?
Hello, this is Orson Welles. I was just reading one of my many biographies. Really… I don’t know if I believe that last sentence.
In any case…
(MUSIC: SPANISH THEME SONG [\"NO MORE,\" A TANGO]... FADES)
Orson: We know now that in the early years of the twentieth century this world was being watched closely by intelligences greater than man\'s, and yet as mortal as his own. We know now that as human beings busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinized and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinize the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water.
With infinite complacence people went to and fro over the earth about their little affairs, serene in the assurance of their dominion over this small, spinning fragment of solar driftwood which, by chance or design, man has inherited out of the dark mystery of Time and Space.
Which reminds me that we are here tonight to discuss poetry. Blue Tattoo, welcome.
Blue Tattoo (BT): Thank you, Mr. Welles. It\'s my great pleasure to be here.
Orson: Let me start with this poem.
What Frank Knew
She pauses on the rim
of the sleeping desert,
lights a sweet caporal
with a boot-struck match,
shadowed face floating behind
the arc of a blue diamond
and suddenly she\'s Ava,
backwoods beauty stolen
from an old movie, playing
a sultry scene in sweat-wet khaki
beneath a California moon,
swaying to forgotten strains
of silent music that tickles
my memory, tighten my senses
and now she turns-
turning to smile at me dark-haired
and dangerous and all at once
I recognize the pull, fall
under the hard draw
of a sucking tide and I am
swallowed, sluiced down a perfect
throat like the perfect shot and
I understand, same as Frank did,
the nature of certain addictions.
Let me tell you – this is perfect of its kind. Wonderful. How did you come to write it?
BT: Well, Mr. Welles, this poem is actually rooted in fact. Even though I reside nowhere near a desert, sleeping or otherwise, there IS a vacant lot behind the hospital I frequent that could pass for a desert; especially now that the streetlights that face it have been broken out and it\'s been put in the dark. Unless, of course, there\'s a moon hanging around...but, back to the facts. There\'s this ER doc that I was spooning a while ago, even though such pairings are strictly frowned upon (I\'m a Paramedic, and we are NOT supposed to fraternize with the higher-ups), but I became enamored, actually, addicted is a much more apt term, and I managed to talk her into a couple or three smoke breaks in the aforementioned vacant lot. She carried pack matches from the commissary, and smoked Luckies, but the Blue Diamonds were easy enough to imagine...and my pop smoked Sweet Caporals; I still remember the heavy smell of them. This particular doc had long, very brunette hair and hooded eyes, and being from Mississippi, a drawl that could melt butter. Being a HUGE Ava fan (those lips, those ELBOWS), all it took was a strike and a turn.
Orson: I knew Ava, of course. Did you know that Rita Hayworth and I planned to build right there at Nepenthe down Highway 1 from Carmel? I mention this because, under the aspect of Eternity I saw, perhaps two of your mortal years ago, two of the fellows who are here at the Jeunesse Doree as they sat on the deck of the restaurant “Nepenthe? sipping fine ale and always reflecting on that name as great crows or ravens harried them trying to catch their attention just long enough to signify something. The crows or ravens failed. Instead they persisted in laughing over their own limericks. They were the Lonliest Ranger and Samson Shillitoe and Mr. Shillitoe, when you posted this poem a few days ago, gave the right and inevitable reaction.
I couldn’t have said it better. But (and I hope you agree with what Samson wrote) and looking at poem yourself…how do you think it works in this way, what happens in the poem to do just what Samson says it does? And please remember to not let modesty restrain you. The poem is there.
BT: Nepenthe...I know it well. The opiate\'s dream, Homer\'s remedy for grief; mecca of poets, artists, and vagabonds. Carved right out of the cliffs, isn\'t it? Lovely place, smelling of salt and redwood and oak. I have a friend who lives in Esalen; I visited the Henry Miller museum once. And of course, there is Big Sur; which I think has become woefully...well, commercialized. Full of re-habitants. I agree that the restaurant is a wonder; I had an ambrosia burger there in \'74, back when I was younger and had a little change to spend. Their merlot is excellent, if I recall correctly.
But I do run on...back to your question. I was honored by Mr. Shilitoe\'s response, thrilled, actually. For me, it was that turning...it really DID push the sun away (had there been one; there wasn\'t). When she turned, her hands cupped around her match, it lit her face from beneath her chin; it pulled her aspect into something breathtaking...I hate that word, but in this case, it\'s apropos...and pulled me with it. That\'s the moment that my \'addiction\' to this woman began; I could\'nt get enough. Ava came almost immediately to mind; particularly Mogambo, which I had seen just the night before. What I think happens in this poem is strictly animal; that guttural attraction that can occur at certain moments, welcome or no. It\'s sensory, olfactory, visceral. Ask Frank, he\'ll tell you.
Orson: Look at the transition from the first to the second verse:
She pauses on the rim
of the sleeping desert,
lights a sweet caporal
with a boot-struck match,
shadowed face floating behind
the arc of a blue diamond
and suddenly she\'s Ava,
What a wonderful effect. Of a sudden the flame..and what I love
One of the poems:
Bad Night at Haiphong
Two klics outside the port city,
underbrush hid clusters of olive clad kids,
bellies flat against slick earth
wet with mud and blood. Days here
fell fast into night, and when dark came,
you prayed for light. Nights were bad,
you listened with strained ears through
a din of strange sounds, for sounds that
were stranger still. Constant fear kept you awake
like the mummy did in the fifth grade;
trembling in your G.I. Joe sleeping bag
on TimmyMcPherson\'s living room floor.
None of us knew scared like this,
but we all caught on real quick.
Our backyard battle plans and monster movie
anecdotes didn\'t apply in this show. By the
second night in the bush, we had all lost faith
in Hollywood. Somebody forgot to yell cut
so the stand-ins could take our places. It all made
you wonder what Audie had been singing about.
Sometimes, you imagined that you smelled fish sauce,
the sour odor of charleys with full bellies-
ready to hunt all night on papered feet,
mute yellow draculas with a taste for cold blood.
Every now and then we got lucky; the point man
would hear the low squeak of silk bat wings
in time to thwart the midnight buffet.
But most times we weren\'t lucky, and some of us
joined the army of the undead; coming back to star
in the nightmares of the rest of us.
And we wondered what G.I. Joe might do
on a bad night in Haiphong; where the matinee
horrors were real, and none of us could find
the zippers down the backs of the monster suits.
Poems sad and merry and comment and comedy about the same. We eats cold eels and think distant thoughts.
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