Under the Black Flag

Fun With Panthers

The black American fugitive who was recently caught after 41 years on the lam brought back lots of memories.  No, I’ve never been a fugitive from justice, and the memories are quite pleasant, because I met all those so-called Black Liberation Army con men in Algeria just about the time George Wright flew in from Boston to join them.  But first a few reminders of what it was like back then if one was pro law and order.

Actually, it was pre-p.c. but worse.  I remember one night at the Sherry-Netherland in New York in the company of an exquisite beauty, a lady who had the lead part in that haunting film Summer of ’42, which had just come out.  I was just back from Vietnam, and after lots of drinks I thought my chances were pretty good, especially since she asked if I would walk her across the park, as back then it was a more dangerous place than Da Nang.  Alas, the Nam came up while walking, and I mentioned the fragging of officers by American enlisted men.  “It’s one hundred percent black GIs who do it,” I said.  If I had called her mother a hooker, she would not have gotten as angry, of that I’m sure.  After calling me a racist mother­f--king pig she rushed off into the night, and I never saw her again.  Jennifer’s reaction might seem over the top now—especially as she hardly knew where Vietnam was—but it was predictable.  Black gangsterism...

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